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WSB  LIBRARY 


THE 

POEMS 


eillfEBGILllSMITS. 

WITH  THE 
PLEASURES  OF  HOPE, 

BY  THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY, 

BT  SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

PLEASURES  OF  IMAGINATION, 

BT  MARK  AKENSIDE 


WORLD  PUBLISHING  HOUSE, 
139    EIGHTH    STREET, 

NEW  YORK. 
1875. 


CONTENTS. 


The  Traveller ,  or,  a  Prospect  of  Society  •  .  7 
The  Deserted  Village  .  .  .  .28 

The  Haunch  of  Venison,  a  Poetical  Ep/rtle  to 

Lord  Clare 49 

Retaliation      ......      56 

Postscript    .  .  .  .  -      68 

The  Hermit,  a  Ballad  •  .  •  .75 

The  Double  Transformation,  a  Tale        .  .      81 

The  Gift :  to  Iris,  in  Bow-street,  Covent-garden  85 
ITie  Logicians  Refuted :  in  Imitation  of  Dean 

Swift 86 

Stanzas  on  the  taking  of  Quebec   .  .  88 

Description  of  an  Author's  Bed-Chamber  .      89 

A  new  Simile,  in  the  Manner  of  Swift     .  .      90 

The  Clown's  Reply  .  .  .  .  .92 

An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog       .  .      93 

Stanzas  on  Woman  .  .  .      94 


C0KTKTT8. 

Prolo^e  to  Zobeide,  &  Tragedy  .  .     95 

Song Of 

Epilogue,  spoken  by  Mr.  Lee  Lewes,  in  the  Cha- 
racter of  Harlequin,  at  his  Benefit     .  .      fl7 
Seng  from  the  Oratorio  of  the  Captivity  .      99 
Song  intended  to  have  been  sung  in  the  Conxedy 

of  'She  Stoops  to  Conquer'     .  .  .101 

On  a  beautiful  youth  struck  blind  by  Lightning      it 
A.  Prologue,  written  and  spoken  by  the  Poet  La- 
berius,  a  Roman  Knight  whom  Cssar  forced 
upon  the  Stage  .  .  .  .101 

Epitaph  on  Edward  Purdon  .  .  .103 

Epilogue  to  the 'Comedy  of  the  Sisters'  .  .    104 

Sonnet  .  .  .106 

An  Elegy  on  the  Glory  o'  her  Sex — Mr«.  Mary 

Blaise       .  .  .  .  .107 

Epiuph  on  Dr.  Parnell  .  .101 


THE  TRAVELLE»} 

CE, 

A  PROSPECT  OF  SOCIETYf 

FXB8T  FSINTSS  XX  MPCCLZY. 


10  TBB 


REV.  HENRY  GOLDSMITH 


DEAR   SIR, 

I  am  sensible  that  the  friendship  between  ua  eai 
acquire  no  new  force  from  the  ceremonies  of  a  Dedi- 
cation ;  and  perhaps  it  demands  an  excuse  thus  to 
prefix  your  name  to  my  attempts,  which  you  decline 
giving  with  your  own.  But  as  a  part  of  this  poem 
was  formerly  written  to  you  from  Switzerland,  the 
whole  can  now,  with  propriety,  be  only  inscribed  to 
you.  It  will  also  throw  a  light  upon  many  parts  of 
it,  when  the  reader  understands  that  it  is  addressed 
to  a  man,  who,  despising  Fame  and  Fortune,  has 
retired  early  to  Happiness  and  Obscurity,  witb  an 
mcoms  of  forty  pounds  a  year. 

a 


I  DEDICATION. 

I  now  percteive,  my  dear  brother,  the  wlsd-im  of 
your  humble  choice.  You  have  entered  upon  a  sacred 
office,  where  the  harvest  is  great,  and  the  labourers 
are  but  few  ;  while  you  have  left  the  field  of  Ambition, 
^bere  the  labourers  are  many,  and  the  harvest  not 
worth  carrying  away.  But  of  all  kinds  of  ambition, 
what  from  the  refinement  of  the  times,  from  different 
systems  of  criticism,  and  from  the  divisions  of  partv» 
that  which  pursues  poetical  fame  is  the  wildest. 

Poetry  makes  a  principal  amusement  among  unpo- 
lished nations;  but  in  a  country  versing  to  the 
extremes  of  refinement,  Painting  and  Music  come  in 
for  a  share.  As  these  offer  the  feeble  mind  a  lesa 
laborious  entertainment,  they  at  first  rival  Poetry 
and  at  length  supplant  her ;  they  engross  all  that 
'avour  once  shown  to  her,  and,  though  but  younger 
listers,  seize  upon  the  elder's  birth-right. 

Yet,  however  this  art  may  be  neglected  by  the 
powerful,  it  is  stUl  in  greater  danger  from  the  mis- 
taken efforts  of  the  learned  to  improve  it.  What 
criticisms  have  we  not  heard  of  late  in  favour  of 
Dlank  verse,  and  Pindaric  odes,  caoruaes,  anapestS; 
and  iambics,  alliterative  care  and  happy  n<».gligence1 


L=^ 


DEDICATION.  5 

Eirery  absurdity  has  now  a  chainpi>n  to  defend  it; 
And  as  he  is  generally  much  in  the  wrong,  so  he  hag 
always  much  to  say;  for  error  is  ever  talkative. 

But  there  is  an  enemy  to  this  art  still  more  dan- 
gorous — I  mean  Party.  Party  entirely  distorts  the 
judgment,  and  destroys  the  taste.  When  the  mind  ia 
once  infected  with  this  disease,  it  can  only  find 
pleasure  in  what  contributes  to  increase  the  distem- 
per. Like  the  tiger,  that  seldom  desists  from  pur- 
suing man  after  having  once  preyed  upon  human 
flesh,  the  reader  who  has  once  gratilie  J  his  appetite 
with  calumny,  makes,  ever  after,  the  most  agreeable 
feast  upon  murdered  reputation.  Such  readers  gene- 
rally admire  some  half-witted  thing,  who  wants  to 
be  thought  a  bold  man,  having  lost  the  character  of  a 
wise  one.  Him  they  dignify  with  the  name  of  poet: 
'  his  tawdry  lampoons  are  called  satires ;  his  turbulence 
b  said  to  be  force,  and  his  phrensy  fire. 

What  reception  a  poem  may  find,  which  has  neithei 
ftbuse,  party,  nor  blank  verse  to  support  it,  I  cannot 
tell,  nor  am  I  solicitous  to  know.  My  aims  are  right. 
Without  espousing  the  cause  of  any  party,  I  have 
,  ttempted  to  moderate  '.he  rage  of  all.    I  have  en- 


f  DEDICATIOir. 

deavoured  to  show,  that  there  may  be  equal  happi 
ness  in  states  that  are  differently  governed  from  out 
own ;  that  every  state  has  a  particular  principle  of 
happiness,  and  that  this  principle  in  each  may  be 
carried  to  a  mischievous  excess.  There  are  few  caa 
judge  better  than  yourself  how  far  these  positionf 
U9  llluatrated  in  this  Poem. 

I  am, 
Dear  Sir, 
Imu  most  aflectionate  brother, 
QUVER  GOLDSMITH 


THE  TRAVELIEK, 


OR, 


A  PROSPECT  OF  SOCIETY.* 


Remote,  unlnenaed,  meiancholy,  slow, 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scheld,  or  wandering  Po; 
Or  onward,  where  the  rude  Carinthian  boor 
Against  the  houseless  stranger  shuts  the  door 
Or  where  Campania's  plain  forsaken  lies, 
A  weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies  ; 
Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 
My  heart,  untravell'djfondly  turns  to  thee, 
Still  to  my  brother  turns,  with  ceaseless  pain. 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain. 

Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend, 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend , 


*  In  this  poem  several  alterations  were  made, 
and  some  new  verses  added,  as  it  passed  through 
different  editions. — We  have  printed  from  the  last 
edition  published  in  the  life-time  of  the  author. 

7 


8  THE  TEAVELLER. 

Blest  be  that  spot,  where  tneerful  guests  letire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  fire ; 
Blest  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair, 
And  every  stranger  tinds  a  ready  chair ; 
Blest  be  those  feasts  whh  simple  plenty  crown'd, 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 
Or  sigh  \nth  puy  at  some  mournful  tale ; 
Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good. 

But  me,  not  destin'd  such  dehghts  to  share, 
My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent  and  care; 
Empell'd  with  steps  unceasing  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good,  that  mocks  me  with  the 

view; 
That,  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies, 
Allures  from  far,  yet  as  I  follow,  flics ; 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 
And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own. 

E'en  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 
[  sit  me  down  a  pensive  hour  to  spend ; 
And  plac'd  on  high,  above  the  storm's  career, 
Lookdownwardwherea  hundred  realmsappeai , 
Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide, 
Th' pomp  ofkings.th' shepherd's  humbler  pride. 

When  thus  Creation's  charms  around  com- 
bine, 
Amidst  the  store  should  thankless  pride  repinef 
Bay,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disdain 
That  good  which  makes  each  humbler  bosom 
va!n  t 


rni.    TRAVELLER-  5 

Lei  school-taught  pride  dissemble  all  it  caa, 

These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man ; 

And  wiser  he,  whose  sympathetic  mind 

Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 

Ye  ghttering  towns,  with  wealth  and  splendour 
crown' d ; 

Ye  fields,   wiiere  summer   spreads  profusior. 
round ; 

Ye  lakes  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale; 

Ye  bending  swains, that  dress  the  flowery  vale; 

For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine ; 

Creation's  heir,  the  world,  the  world  is  mine. 
As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store, 

Bends  at  his  treasure,  counts,  recounts  it  o'er; 

Hoards  after  hoards  his  rising  raptures  fill, 

Yet  still  he  sighs,  for  hoards  are  wanting  still: 
Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise, 

Pleas' d  with  each  good  that  Heaven  to  man 
supplies ; 

Yet  oft  a  sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall, 
To  see  the  hoard  of  human  bhss  so  small 
And  oft  I  wish,  amidst  the  scene,  to  find 
Some  spot  to  real  happmess  consign' d, 
Wheremywornsoul,eachwand'ringhopeatres% 
May  gather  bhss  to  see  my  fellows  blest. 

But  where  to  find  that  liappiest  spot  below 
Who  can  direct  when  all  pretend  to  know? 
The  shudd'ring  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own; 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease : 


10  THE   TKA  TELLER. 

The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  hne, 
Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wme, 
Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave, 
And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they  gave 
Such  is  the  patriot's  boast,  where'er  we  roam, 
His  first,  best  country  ever  is  at  home. 
And  yet.  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare, 
And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share, 
Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  %\nsdom  find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind ; 
As  different  good,  by  art  or  nature  given. 
To  different  nations,  makes  their  blessings  even. 
Nature,  a  mother  kind  ahke  to  all, 
Still  grants  her  bhss  at  labour's  earnest  call; 
With  food  as  well  the  peasant  is  supphed 
On  Ida's  chffs  as  Arno's  shelvy  side ; 
And  though  the  rocky-crested  summits  frown, 
These  rocks,  by  custom  turn  to  beds  of  down. 
From  art  more  various  are  the  blessings  sent ; 
Wealth,  commerce,  honour,  Uberty,  content, 
yet  these  each  other's  power  so  strong  contest, 
That  either  seems  destructive  of  the  rest. 
Where  wealth  and  freedom  reign,  contentmen* 

fails  ; 
Andhonour  sinks  wherecommercelongprevails 
Hence  every  state,  to  one  lov'd  blessing  prone 
Conforms  and  models  Ufe  to  that  alone. 
Each  to  the  fav'rite  happiness  attends, 
And  spurns  the  plan  that  aims  at  other  ends 
Till,  carried  to  excess  in  each  domain. 
This  fav'rite  good  beo»=<  peculiar  pain. 


IHE   TRAVELLER.  ll 

But  let  us  try  these  truths  with  closer  eyes, 
A.nd  trace  them  through  the  prospect  as  it  lies 
Here  for  xwhile,  my  proper  cares  resign' d, 
Here  let  me  sit  in  sorrow  for  mankind  ; 
LiKe  yon  neglected  shrub,  at  random  cast, 
That  shades  the  steep,  and  sighs  at  every  blasl 

Far  to  the  right,  where  Appenine  ascends, 
Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends  ; 
Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain's  side, 
Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride  ; 
Whileoftsometemple'smould'ringtopsbeiwoen 
With  memorable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

Could  Nature's  bounty  satisfy  the  breast ; 
The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest : 
Whatever  fruits  in  different  chmes  are  found. 
That  proudly  rise,  or  humbly  court  the  ground  ; 
Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  traces  appear. 
Whose  bright  succession  decks  the  varied  year; 
Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  lives,  that  blossom  but  to  die  : 
These  here  disporting  own  the  kindred  soil. 
Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter's  toil ; 
While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand 
To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling  land. 
But  small  the  bhss  that  sense  alone  bestows 
And  sensual  bliss  is  all  the  nation  knows. 
In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear : 
Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here 
Contrasted  faults  through  all  his  manners  reign 
Though  poor,  luxurious;  though  submissive, 


12  THE  TRAVELLER. 

Though  grave,  yet  trifling ;  zealous,  yet  untrue 

And  even  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 

All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind. 

That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind  ; 

For  wealth  was  their' s,  not  far  remov'd  the  date, 

When   Commerce   proudly  flourish' d  through 

the  state  ; 
At  her  command  the  palace  learnt  to  rise  ; 
Again  the  long-fall' n  column  sought  the  skies ; 
The  canvas  glow'd,  beyond  e'en  nature  warm  ; 
The  pregnant  quarry  teem'd  with  human  form  ; 
Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern  gale, 
Commerce  on  other  shores  display' d  her  sail ; 
While  nought  remain'd  of  all  that  riches  gave 
But  towns  unmann'd,  and  lords  without  a  slave 
And  late  the  nation  found,  whh  fruitless  skill, 
Its  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill. 

Yet,  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  supplied, 
By  arts,  the  splendid  wrecks  of  former  pride  ; 
From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long-fall'n  mind 
An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 
Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  array'd, 
The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  cavalcade : 
Processions  formed  for  piety  and  love, 
A  mistress  or  a  saint  in  every  grove. 
By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguil'd 
The  sports  of  children  satisty  the  child  : 
Each  nobler  aim.  represt  by  long  controul, 
Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul, 
While  low  delights  succeeding  fast  behind, 
[n  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind : 


THE  TRAVELLER.  1? 

As  in  those  domes  where  Caesars  once  bore  sway, 
Defac'd  by  time,  and  tott'ring  in  decay, 
There  in  tiie  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead, 
The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed ; 
And,  wondering  man  could  want  the  larger  pile. 
Exults,  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a  smile. 
My  soul,  turn  from  them,  turn  we  to  survey 
Where  rougher  climes  a  nobler  race  display ; 
Where  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormy  mansion 

tread, 
And  force  a  churhsh  soil  for  scanty  bread. 
No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford, 
But  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  his  sword 
No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array, 
But  winter  hngering,  chills  the  lap  of  May  ; 
No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain's  breast, 
But  meteors  glare,  and  stormy  glooms  invest. 
Yet  still,  even  here,  content  can   spread  a 
charm. 
Redress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  disarm. 
Though  poor  the  peasant's  hut,  his  feasts  tho* 

small, 
He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all ; 
Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head, 
To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed ; 
No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal. 
To  make  him  loathe  his  vegetable  meal : 
But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil, 
Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the  soil. 
Cheerful  at  morn,  he  wakes  from  short  reposo, 
Breathes  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes ; 


•14  THE  TRAVELLER. 

With  patient  aYigle  trolls  the  finny  deep, 

Or  drives  his  vent'rous  ploughshare  to  the  3teep  , 

Or  seeks  the  den,  where  snow-tracks  mark  tha 

way, 
And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 
At  night  returning,  every  labour  sped. 
He  sits  him  down,  the  monarch  of  a  shed ; 
Smiles  by  his  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 
His    children's    looks,  that    brighten    at    the 

blaze  ; 
While  his  lov'd  partner,  boastful  of  her  hoard, 
Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board : 
And  haply  too,  some  pilgrim  thither  led, 
With  many  a  tale  repays  tiie  nightly  bed. 

Thus  every  good  his  native  wilds  impart, 
Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart ; 
And  e'en  those  ills  that  round  his  mansion  nse. 
Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  supplies : 
Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  conforms. 
And    dear    that    hill   -v.'hich   lifts    him  to  the 

storms ; 
And  as  a  child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest, 
Clings  close  and  closer  to   he  mother's  breast, 
So  the  loud  torrent,  and  the  whirlwind's  roar, 
But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 

Such  are  the  charms  to  barren  states  assign'd. 
Their  wants  but  few,  their  wishes  all  confin'dr 
Yet  let  them  only  share  the  praises  due  ; 
If  few  their  wants,  their  pleasures  are  but  few; 
For  every  want  that  stimulates  the  breast, 
Becomes  a  source  of  pleasure  when  redrest, 


THE  TKAVELLER.  15 

Whence  frum  such  lands  each  pleasing  scienoa 

flies, 
That  first  excites  desire,  and  then  supplies  ; 
Unknown  to  them,  when  sensual  pleasures  cloy, 
To  fill  the  languid  pause  with  finer  joy  ; 
Unknown  those  powers  that  raise  the  soul  to 

flame, 
Catch  every  neri'e,  and  vibrate  thro'  the  frame. 
Their  level  life  is  but  a  mouldering  fire, 
Unquench'd  by  want,  unfann'd  by  strong  desire , 
Unjfit  for  raptures,  or,  if  rapt-ires  cheer 
On  some  high  fes'ival  of  once  a  year, 
In  v/ild  ex-^esn  the  vulvar  breast  takes  fir«, 
Till,  buried  in  de' auch.  the  bliss  expire. 

But  not  their  joys  akme  this  coarsely  flow  ; 
Their  morals,  like  their  pleasures,  are  but  low; 
For.  as  refi'iev.ie  It  s'cps    from  sire  to  son, 
Unalter'd.  unimnrov'd.  the  manners  run  ; 
And  love's  and  friendship's  finely-pointed  dait 
Fall  blunted  from  each  indurated  heart. 
Some  sterner  virtues  o'er  the  mountain's  breast 
May  sit.  hke  falcons  cowering,  on  the  nest ; 
But  all  the  gentler  morals,  such  as  play 
Through  life's  more  cul  ur'd  walks,  and  charm 

the  way. 
These,  far  dispers'd.  on  timorous  pinions  fly, 
To  sport  and  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 

To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners  reign, 
I  turn  ;  and  France  displays  her  bright  domain. 
Gay,  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 
**Jeas'd  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  ca» 
please, 


16  THK   TRAVELLER. 

How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir, 
With  tuneless  pipe,  beside  the  murmuring  Loire 
Where  shading  ehns  along  the  margin  grew, 
And  freshen'd  from  the  wave  the  zephyr  flew. 
A.nd  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch  falt'ring  still, 
But  niock'd  all  tune,  and  marr'd  the  dancers' 

fekiU, 
Yet  would  thevijlage  praise  my  wondrov.s  power. 
And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 
Alike  all  ages  :  dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  thro'  the  mirthful  maze  : 
And  the  grey  granusiie.  skill' d  in  gestic  lore, 
Has  frisk'd  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore. 

So   blest    a    life    these    thoughtless    realms 
display  ; 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away  ; 
Theirs  are  those  arts  th>:  mind  to  mind  endear, 
For  honour  forms  the  sociil  temper  here. 
Honour,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains. 
Or  e'en  imaginary  worth  obtains, 
Here  passes  current  ;  paid  from  hand  to  hand, 
It  shifts,  in  splendid  traffic,  round  the  land. 
From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages,  it  strays, 
And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise  ; 
They  please,  are  pleas' d ;  they  give  to  get  esteem, 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they 
seem. 

But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies. 
It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise  ; 
For  praise  too  dearly  lov'd,  or  warmly  sought, 
Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought ; 


THE   TRAVELLER.  1^ 

J\nd  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 
LiCans  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  breast. 
Hence  Ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art, 
Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart ; 
He'f  vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 
And  trims  her  robes  of  frieze  with  copper  lace ; 
flere  beggar  Pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer. 
To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a  year ; 
The    mind  still  turns    where   shifting  fashion 

draws, 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  solf-applause. 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Embosom' d  in  the  deep  wllere  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 
Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land. 
And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 
Lift  the  tal'  rampire's  artificial  pride. 
Onward  methinks,  and  dihgently  slow, 
The  firm,  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow  ; 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery  roar 
Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore  ; 
While  the  pent  Ocean,  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile 
The  slow  canal,  the  yellow-blossomed  vale, 
The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  <5ail, 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 
A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  Feign. 

Thus  while  around  the  wave-subjected  ai)3 
Impels  'he  native  to  repeated  toil, 
Indust  lous  habits  in  each  bosom  reign, 
And  mdustry  begets  a  love  of  gain. 


13  THE   TRAVELLER. 

Hence  aK  (he  good  from  opulence  that  springs 
With  all  those  ills  superfluous  treasure  brings, 
Are  here  display' d.     Their  much- loved  wealth 

imparts 
Convenience,  plenty,  elegance  and  arts; 
But  view  them  closer,  craft  and  fraud  appear 
Even  liberty  itself  is  barter' d  here. 
At  gold's  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies, 
The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buys  : 
A  land  of  tyrants,  and  a  den  of  slaves, 
Here  wretches  seek  dishonourable  graves, 
And  calmly  bent,  to  serAitude  conform, 
Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the  storm. 
Heavens  I  how  unlike  their  Belgic  sires  of  old 
Rough,  poor,  content,  ungovernably,  bold  ; 
War  in  each  breast,  and  freedom  on  each  brow, 
How  much  unhke  the  sons  of  Britain  now  ! 
Fir'd  at  the  sound,  my  genius  spreads  her 

wing, 
And    flies  where  Britain    courts   the   westeia 

spring ; 
Where  lawns  extend  that  scorn  Arcadian  pride, 
And  brighterstreams  than  fam'dHydaspesglide 
There  all  around  the  gentlest  breezes  stray, 
There  gentle  music  melts  on  every  spray. 
Creation's  mildest  charms  are  there  combin'd, 
Extremes  are  only  in  the  master's  mind. 
Stern  o'er  each  bosom  Reason  holds  her  state 
With  daring  aims  irregularly  great. 
Pride  ht  their  port,  aefiance  in  their  eye, 
I  see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by ; 


THE  TRAVELLER.  19 

Intent  on  high  designs,  a  thoughtful  band, 
By  forms  unfashion'd,  fresh  from  Nature's  haml. 
Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul. 
True  to  imagin'd  right,  above  controul, 
While  even  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights  t<! 

scan. 
And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 

Thine,  Freedom,  thine  the  blessings  pictur'd 
here. 
Thine  are  those  charms  that  dazzle  and  endear 
Too  blest,  indeed,  were  such  without  alloy, 
But  foster' d  even  by  Freedom  ills  annoy ; 
That  independence  Britons  prize  too  high. 
Keeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the  social  tie 
The  self-dependent  lordlings  stand  alone, 
All  claims  that  bind  and  sweeten  life  unknown ; 
Here,  by  the  bonds  of  nature  fee'aly  held. 
Minds  combat  minds,  repelling  and  repell'd. 
Ferments  arise,  imprisoned  factions  roar, 
Represt  ambition  struggles  round  her  shore, 
Till  overwrought  the  general  system  feels 
Its  motions  stop,  or  phrensy  fire  the  wheels. 

Nor  this  the  worst.     As  nature's  ties  decay, 
As  duty,  love,  and  honour,  fail  to  sway. 
Fictitious  bonds,  the  bonds  of  wealth  and  law, 
Still  gather  strength,  and  force  unwilling  awe. 
Hence  all  obedience  bows  to  these  alone, 
And  talent  sinks  and  merit  weeps  unknown ; 
Till  time  may  come,   when,  stript  of  all  hei 

charms, 
The  land  of  scholars,  and  the  nu'-se  of  arms, 


80  THE   THAT  El  LEK. 

Where  noble  stems  transmit  the  patriot  flame, 
Where  kings  have  toil'd.  and  poets  wrote  foi 

fame, 
One  sink  of  level  avarice  shall  lie, 
And  scholars,  soldiers,  kings,  unhonour'd  die. 
Yet  think  not,  thus  when  Freedom's  ills  i 

state, 
I  mean  to  flatter  kings,  or  court  the  great. 
Ye  powers  of  truth,  that  bid  my  soul  aspire,  ■ 
Far  from  my  bosom  drive  the  low  de«re  ; 
And  thou,  fair  Freedom,  taught  alike  to  feel 
The  rabble's  rage,  and  tyrant's  angry  steel; 
Thou  transitory  flower,  alike  undone 
By  proud  contempt,  or  favour's  fostering  sun: 
Still  may  thy  blooms  the  changeful  chme  endure, 
I  only  would  repress  them  to  secure  ; 
For  just  experience  tells,  in  every  soil, 
That  those  who  tliink  must  govern  those  thai 

toil ; 
And  all  that  freedom's  highest  aims  can  reach, 
Is  but  to  lav  proportioned  loads  on  each. 
Hence,  should  one  order  disproportion' d  grow. 
Its  double  weight  must  ruin  all  below. 

O  then  how  blind  to  all  that  truth  requires. 
Who  think  it  freedom  when  a  part  aspires  ! 
Calm  is  my  soul',  nor  apt  to  rise  in  arms. 
Except  when  fast-approaching  danger  warns: 
But  when  contending  chiefs  blockade  the  throno 
Contracting  regal  power  to  stretch  their  own; 
When  ''.  behold  a  factious  band  agree 
To  caU  it  ^5edora  when  themselves  are  fre«: 


THE  TKiVELIiER.  2j 

Each  wanton  judge  new  penal  statutes  draw. 
Laws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich  men  rule  the  law , 
The  wealth  of  chmes,  where  savage  nations  roam, 
Pillag'd  from  slaves,  to  purchase  slaves  at  home; 
Fear,  pity,  justice,  indignation  start. 
Tear  off  reserve,  and  bare  my  swelling  heart; 
Till  half  a  patriot,  half  a  coward  grown, 
I  fly  from  petty  tyrants  to  the  throne. 

Yes,  brother,  curse  with  me  that  baleful  houf 
When  first  ambition  struck  at  regal  power ; 
And,  thus  polluting  honour  in  its  source. 
Gave  wealth  to  sway  the  mind  with  double  force 
Have  we  noi  seen,  round  Britain's  peopled  shore 
Her  useful  sons  exchanged  for  useless  ore  ; 
Seen  all  her  triumphs  but  destruction  haste, 
Like  flaring  tapers  bright' ning  as  they  waste  ; 
Seen  Opulence,  her  grandeur  to  maintain, 
Lead  stern  Depopulation  in  her  train. 
And  over  fields  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 
In  barren  solitary  pomp  repose  ? 
Have  we  not  seen,  at  pleasure's  lordly  call; 
The  smiling  long-frequented  village  fall ; 
Beheld  the  duteous  son,  the  sire  decay'd. 
The  modest  matron,  and  the  blushing  maid, 
Forc'd  from  their  homes,  a  melancholy  train, 
To  traverse  chmes  beyond  the  western  main ; 
Where  wild  Oswega  spreads  her  swampsaround 
And  Niagara  stuns  wi'h  thund'ring  sound? 

^vennow,perhaps,a>  there  some  pilgrim  strays 
Through  tangled  forests,  and  through  dangerous 
ways 


22  THE   TRAVELLER. 

Where  beasts  with  man  divided  empire  claim, 
And  the  brown  Indian  marks  with  murd'rous 

aim  ; 
There,  while  above  the  giddy  tempest  flies, 
And  all  around  distressful  yells  arise, 
The  pensive  exile,  bendins:  with  his  woe, 
To  stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to  go. 
Casts  a  long  look  where  England's  glories  shine^ 
And  bids  his  bosom  sympathise  with  mine. 
Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find 
That  bhss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind: 
Why  have  I  stray' d  from  pleasure  and  repose 
To  seek  a  good  each  government  bestows  ? 
In  every  government  though  terrors  reign, 
Though  tyrant  kings,  or  tyrant  laws  restrain, 
How  small,  of  all  mat  human  hearts  endure, 
That  part, which  laws  or  kings  car.  cause  or  cure  '. 
Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consign' d, 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find  : 
With  secret  course,  which  no  1  jud  storms  annoy, 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy. 
The  lifted  axe,  the  agonising  \\  heel, 
Luke's  iron  crown,  and  Damien's  bed  of  steel, 
To  men  remote  from  power  but  rarely  known. 
Leave  reason,  faith,  and  consc'euce,  all  our  own, 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 
Jl  poem. 

FIBST  FSINTEl    IN  MDCCLXUL 


?0 

SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS. 

DEAR   SIR» 

1  CAN  have  no  expectations  in  an  address  of  Ihla 
Kind,  either  to  add  to  your  rt;putanon,  or  to  estallish 
my  own.  You  can  gain  nothing  from  my  admiral  on, 
as  I  am  ignorant  of  that  art  in  which  vou  aie  said  to 
excel;  and  1  may  lose  much  by  the  severity  of  your 
judgment,  as  feAV  have  a  juster  taste  in  poetry  than 
you.  Setting  interest  therefore  aside,  to  which! 
never  paid  much  attention,  I  must  be  indulged  at 
present  in  following  my  affections.  The  only  dedica- 
tion I  ever  made  was  to  my  brother,  because  I  loved 
him  better  than  most  other  man.  lie  is  since  dead. 
Permit  me  to  inscribe  this  poem  to  you. 

How  far  you  may  be  pleased  with  the  versification 
and  mere  mechanical  parts  of  this  attempt,  I  do  not 

25 


26  DEDICATION. 

prctei.d  lo  enquire  :  but  I  know  you  will  object  (and 
indeed  several  of  our  best  and  wisest  friends  concur 
in  the  opinion)  that  the  depopulation  it  deplores  is 
nowhere  to  be  seen,  and  the  disorders  it  laments  are 
only  to  be  found  in  the  pool's  own  imagination.  To 
this  I  can  scarce  make  any  other  answer  than  that  I 
sincerely  believe  what  I  have  written ;  that  I  have 
taken  all  possible  pains,  in  my  country  excursions 
for  these  four  or  five  years  past,  to  be  certain  of 
what  I  allege  ;  and  that  all  my  views  and  enquiries 
have  led  me  to  believe  those  miseries  real,  which  1 
here  attempt  to  display.  But  this  is  not  the  place  to 
enter  into  an  enquiry,  whether  the  country  be  depopu- 
lating, or  not ;  the  discussion  would  take  up  much 
room ;  and  I  should  prove  myself,  at  best,  an  indiffe- 
rent politician,  to  tire  the  reader  with  a  long  preface, 
when  I  want  his  unfatigued  attention  to  a  long  poem. 

Ill  regretting  the  depopulation  of  the  country,  I  in- 
veigh against  the  increase  of  our  luxuries  ;  and  here 
also  I  expect  the  shout  of  modern  politicians  against 
me.  For  twenty  or  thirty  years  past,  it  has  been  the 
fashion  to  consider  luxury  as  one  of  the  greatest 
national  advantages ;  and  all  the  wisdom  of  antiquity. 


In  that  particular,  as  erroneous.  Still,  however,  I 
must  remain  a  professed  ancient  on  that  head;  and 
continue  to  think  those  luxuries  prejudicial  to  states 
by  which  so  many  vicf  s  are  introduced,  and  so  many 
kingdom.s  have  been  undone.  Indeed,  so  much  has 
been  poured  out  of  late  on  the  other  side  of  the 
question,  that  merely  for  the  sake  of  novelty  and 
variety,  one  would  eometimes  wish  to  be  in  the  right. 
lam 

Dear  sir, 
Voui  sincere  friend,  and  ardent  admirer, 
OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


Sweet  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain. 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheer' d  the  labouring 

swain, 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earhest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  summer's  Uagering  blooms  delay'd. 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats  of  mv  youth,   when   every  sport  could 

piease  ; 
How  often  have  I  loiter' d  o'er  thy  green. 
Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene* 
How  often  have  I  paus'd  on  every  charm, 
The  shelter' d  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  milL 
The  decent  church  that  topt  the  ueighb'ring 

hill ; 
The   hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  tha 

shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whisp'ring  lovers  made  ! 
How  often  have  I  bless'd  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free, 
Led  up  their  spcrts  beneath  the  spreading  tree  ? 

29 


5U  THE   DiSEBTED    VILLAGE. 

V^''hil(!  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey'd  ; 
And  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o'er  the  grouml, 
And  sleights  of  art,  and  feats  of  stn-;ngth  wer 

round  ; 
And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tir'd, 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspir'd. 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 
The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 
While  secret  laughter  titter'd  round  the  place  • 
The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love  ; 
The   matron's  glance  that  would   those  looks 

reprove ; 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village !  sports 

like  these, 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please; 
These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence 

shed. 
These  were. thy  charms,  but  all  these  charms 

are  fled. 
Sv.-eet  smiling  \illage,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  with 

drawn  : 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  Js  seen, 
And  Desolation  saddens  aii  thy  green  : 
One  onl>  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thv  smiling  plain  ; 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But    chok'd    w.th    sedges     works    its   weed/ 

way; 


Lr-^ 


THE   DESERTED    VILLAGE.  3J 

Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  hs  nest ; 
iHiidst  thy  desert  v/alks  the  lapwing  flics, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaned  cries ; 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mould' ring  i\'all. 
And , trembling, shrinkingfrom  the  spoiler' s  ban  d, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  I'ire  land,  to  hast'ning  ills  a  prey. 
Where  v/ealth  accumulates,  and  raen  decay. 
Princes  and  lords  maj'  flourish,  or  may  fade ; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made  ■ 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pri:!e. 
When  once  destroy'd,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintai.i'd  its  man 
For  him  light  Labnur  spread  her  wholesome  store. 
Just  gave  what  life  requir'd,  but  gave  no  more 
His  best  componions,  innocence  and  health; 
And  his  best  rici:es,  ignoran  -e  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  aiter'd  ;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain  ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose. 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumb'rous  pomp  repose; 
And  every  vv^ant  to  luxury  alhed. 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentler  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  thai  ask'd  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  grac'd  the  peacefu, 

scene, 
Liv'd  in  each  look,  an  1  brighten'd  all  the  green 


52  THE   DESERTED    7ILLAGF. 

These  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  ruial  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn,  parent  of  the  blissful  houi . 
Thy  g4ades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  powti. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 
Amidst  iny  tangling  walks,  and  ruin'd  grounds 
And  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn 

grew, 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train. 
Swells  at  my  b'reast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  through  this  world  of 
care. 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  giv'n  my  share — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  litest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close. 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose: 
I  still  had  hopes   for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned 

skill ; 
Around  my  lire  an  evening  irroup  to  draw,     " 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw ; 
And.  as  a  hare  when  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past. 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  Ufe's  dechne, 
[{.etroat  from  cares,  that  never  must  be  mine, 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  thesoi 
A.  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  cf  ease ; 


THE  DESEKTED    VILLAGE.  3S 

Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore    the    mine,   or   tempt    the   dang'rous 

deep; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state. 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate  ; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end. 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend  ; 
Smks  to  the  grave  with  unperceiv'd  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way  ; 
And  all  his  prospects  bright' ning  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 
Sweet  was  the  so-'^d.  when  oft,  at  evenin/r'j* 

close, 
Up  yonder  hill  tne  village  murmur  rose  ; 
There,  as  I  pass'd  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingled  notes  came  soften'd  from  below; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  low'd  to  meet  their  young. 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool. 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school, 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whisp'ring 

whid, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind  ; 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  fiU'd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail. 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  foot-way  tread, 
But  all  the  blooming  flush  of  life  is  fled : 
» 


34  I'HE   DESERTED    VILLAGE. 

All  but  yon  \\'idow'd,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring ; 
She,  wretched  matron,  forc'd.  in  age,  for  bread 
To  strip  the  brook  with  manthng  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  mom; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train. 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 
Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden 

smil'd, 
A.nd  still  where  many  a  garden- flower  grows 

wild ; 
There,    where   a  few    torn    shrubs   the   place 

disclose. 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was.  to  all  the  countTy  dear, 
And  passing  rich  wirh  forty  pounds  a-year ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  liis  godly  race. 
Nor  e'er  had  chang'd,  nor  wish'd  to  change 

his  place  ; 
Unskilful  he  to  hvm,  or  .seek  for -power 
By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn' d  to  prize, 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
He  chid  their  wand' rings,  but  reUev'd  their  pain 
The  long-remember'u  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast 
The  ruin'd  spendthrift  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claim'd   kmdred    there,   and    nad    his    clain 

allow' d. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.         35 

1  he  broken  soldier,  kir.dly  bid  to  slay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away  ; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shoulder' d  his  crutch  and  show'd  liow  fields 

were  won. 
Pleas' d  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd 

to  glow. 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride. 
And  even  his  faihngs  lean'd  to  virtue's  side  ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call. 
He  watch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd,  and  felt,  for  all 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries. 
To  tempt  its  new-fledg'd  offspring  to  the  skies; 
He  tried  each  art,  reprov'd  each  dull  delay, 
Allur'd  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pains,  by  turns  dismay'd, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  controu' 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggUng  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to 

raise. 
And  his  last  falt'ring  accents  whisper'd  praise. 

At  church  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace. 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place  ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail' d  with  double  sway 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remain'd  to  pray, 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
vVith  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  rajas 


S6  THE   DESERTEE    VILLAGE. 

Even  children  follow'd,  with  endearing  wile, 
And  plucked  his  go\vii,  to  sha.3  the  good  man's 

smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  exprest ; 
Their   welfare   pleas'd   him,    and   their   cares 

distrest : 
To  them  his  heart,  Jiis  love,  his  griefs  were 

given. 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form. 
Swells  from  the  valf    and  midway  leaves  the 

storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are 

spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossom' d  furze  unprofitably  gay. 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion  skill' d  to  rule, 
The  ^-illage  master  taught  his  httle  school ; 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view, 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew, 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn' d  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 
Full  well  they  laugh' d  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he  ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  re  nnd, 
Convey'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  fl0^vn'd  : 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  l^ore  to  learning  was  in  fault ; 
The  village  all  declar'd  how  much  he  knew ; 
Twas  certain  he  ^onld  write  and  cipher  too: 


THE   DESERTED    VILLAGE.  3") 

t/and    he    could    measure,    terms    and    tidea 

presage, 
And  even  the  stor^  ran  that  he  could  guage  ; 
In  arguing  too  the  parson  own'd  his  skill, 
For,  e'en  though  vanquish'd,  he  could  argue  stiih 
While  words  of  learned  length,  and  thund'ring 

sound, 
Amaz'd  the  gazing  rustics  rang'd  around. 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 
That  one  small  head  should  carry  all  he  knew 
But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumph'd,  is  forgot. 

Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts 

inspir'd, 
Where    grey-beard    mirth,  and    smiling    toil, 

retir'd  ; 
Where   village    statesmen    talk'd    with    looks 

profound. 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlour-splendours  of  that  festive  place  ; 
The  white-washed  wall,  the  nicely-sanded  floor, 
The  varnish' d  clock  that  chck'd  behind  the  door. 
The  chest  contriv'd  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day  ; 
The  pictures  plac'd  for  ornament  and  use. 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chill'd  the  day. 
With  aspen  boughs, and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay 


88  IflE   DE.SERTED    VILLAGF. 

While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  shew, 
Rang'd  o'er  the  chimney,  ghsten'd  in  a  row. 

V^ain  transitory  splendours  I  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tott'iing  mansion  from  its  fail  ? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart 
Tluther  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair. 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care  ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale. 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  pond'rous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear, 
The  host  himself,  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bhss  go  round; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  wilUng  to  be  prest, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes  !  let  the  ricii  deride,  tlie  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  tlie  lov.ly  train; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart. 
One  native  charm,  tiian  all  the  gloss  of  art. 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 
The   soul    adopts,    and   owns    their   first-born 

sway  ; 
Lightly  they  frohc  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconhn'd: 
But  the  long  pomp,  tiie  midnight  masque" ade, 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  array'd 
In  these,  ere  tritiers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiJuig  pleasure  sickens  into  pain; 
And,  even  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decof 
The  heart  distrusting  asks,  il"  this  be  joy  ? 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.         3S 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  gurvey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge,  how  wide  the  hmits  stand, 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted 

ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore  ; 
Hoards,  even  beyond  the  miser's  wish,  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains.     This  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride. 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied ; 
Space  tor  his  lake,  iiis  park's  e.\ ■  ended  bounds, 
Space  for  his  horse?,  ennipage,  and  hounds; 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  iuabs  in  silken  cloth, 
Has  robb'd  the  nei;,^h!.ouring  fields  of  half  theii 

growth  ; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen. 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  suppUes  ; 
While  thus  the  laad.  adorn'd  for  pleasure  all, 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female  unadorn'd  and  plain. 
Secure  to  please  while  youtii  confirn.s  her  reign 
Slights  every  borrow' d  charm  that  c"  ress  supplie 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  o    .-.er  eyes ; 
But  when  those  charms  are  past,  fr      .harms  are 

fraU, 
W^hen  time  advances,  ana  when  iovuta  fail, 


40  THE   BESERTEl    VILLAGE. 

She  tnen  shines  forth,  sohchous  to  b'ess, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dres^: 
Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betray'd  ; 

I  In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array'd; 

I  But,  verging  to  decline,  its  splep.J-v.irs  rise, 

■{  Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise  ; 

I  While,  scourg'd  by  famine  from  the   smiljig 

land, 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band ; 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms — 'a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where  then,  ah!  where  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contign-^  is  pride  ? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  stray'd, 
He  drives  hi3  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  even  the  bare- worn  common  is  denied. 
If  to  the  city  sped,  what  waits  him  there  ? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combm'd 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind  ; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know. 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creatures'  woe. 
Here,  whi^e  the  courtier  ghtters  m  brocade, 

j  There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade  ; 

j  Here  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pompe 

display, 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  w^iy  • 
The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  midnighi 

reign, 
tlere.  richly  deck'd,  admits  the  gorgeous  train , 


THE   DESERTED    VILLAGE.  4. 

Tun.altuousgrandeui  crowdsthe  blazing  square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  lik^  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy ! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  !— 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ?  ah,  turn  thine 

eyes 
Where  the  poor  houseless  shiv' ring  female  lies. 
She  once,  periiaps,  in  village  plenty  blest,  j 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest ;  I 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn,  | 

Sweet  as  ttie  primrose  p.3cps  'eneath  the  thorn.  j 

Now  lost  to  ali,  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled,  | 

Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head,  j 

And,  pinch'd  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  j 

shower,  I 

With  heavy  heart  depbre.-^,  that  luckless  hour,  \ 

When  idly  first,  ambitijus  of  the  town,  j 

She  left  her  wlieel,  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auijurn,  thine,  the  loveliest  i 

train,  j 

Do  thy  fiir  tribes  participate  her  pain  ?  j 

Even  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  thev  ask  a  little  bread ! 
Ah,  no.     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene. 
Where  half  the  co!ivex  world  intrudes  between, 
Thro'igli  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go., 
Where  wild  Altama  murm\irs  to  their  woe. 
["ar  diifcront  there  from  all  that  charm'd  before. 
The  various  terrors  of  thnt  horrid  shore  , 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  ilowuvvard  ray 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day ; 


€3  THE   DESrKfED    TILI  AGE. 

Those  irmtted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  chng ; 
Those   pois'nous   fields  with   rank   luxuriance 

crown' d, 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around  : 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  ratthng  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake  ; 
Where    crouching    tigers   wait    their    hapless 

prey, 
A.nd  savage   men,  more   murd'rous   still  than 

they; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Minghng  the  ravag'd  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 
The  coohng  brook,  the  grassy-ves;ed  gi-een: 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  war  hng  greve, 
That  only  shelter'd  thefts  of  harmless  love. 
Good  Heav'n!    what  sorrows  gloom'd  thai 

parting  day. 
That    cail'd   them    from    their    native    walks 

away  ; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung    round   the   bowers,    and  fondly  look'd 

their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wish'd  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  w&stern  main ; 
And  shudd'ring  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Return'd  and  wept,  and  still  return'd  to  weep  ! 
The  good  old  sire,  the  first,  prepar'd  to  go 
To  new-found   worlds,   and  wept   for   others' 

woe 


THE  DESERVED    VILLAGE.  13 

But  for  liimseif,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wish'd  for  worlds  beyond  the  graA  3. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
SLent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms. 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a- father's  arms. 
With   louder    plaints    the    mother   spoke    hei 

woes, 
And  blest  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose ; 
And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a 

tear, 
And  clasp'd    them    close,    in    sorrow   doubly 

dear ; 
Whilst  her  fond  husl>and  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. — 
O  Luxury  !  thou  curs' d  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill  exchang'd   are   things   nke   these  for 

thee  ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy , 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  deotroy ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown. 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  tbeir  own ; 
At  every  draught  large  ant'  more  large  they 

grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unw  eldy  woe  ; 
Til.   sapp'd    their   strength,    and    every    part 

unsound, 
Down,  down    they    sink,    and    spread    a   ruin 

round. 
Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And  hall  the  busuiess  of  destruction  done : 


44  THE   DESERTED    VILLAGE. 

Even    now,    methinks,   as    pond'ring   heie    1 

stand, 
I  see  the  rural  Virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchormg  vessel  spreads  the 

sail, 
That  idl)  waiting,  flaps  with  every  gale, 
Downwa  d  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  ?hore.  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  Toil,  and  hospitable  Care, 
And  kind  connubial  Tenderness,  are  there; 
And  Piety,  with  wishes  plac'd  above. 
And  steady  Loyalty,  and  faithful  Love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  lovehest  maid. 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade  ; 
Unfit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame. 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  stiike  for  honest  fame; 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried. 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  soUtary  pride  ; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me 

so : 
Thou  guide  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel. 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well: 
Farewell;  and  oh  !  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Torno's  cliffs,  or  Fambamarca's  side  ; 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervours  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow  ; 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time. 
Redress  the  rigours  of  the  inclement  clirn'^ ; 
Aid  slighted  Truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain, 
Teach  erring  mar.  to  b|  urn  the  rage  of  gain; 


THE  DESERTED    f  ILL  AGE.  45 

Teach    him    that    stales,  of  native    strength 

possest, 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest , 
That    trade's  proud    empire    hastes  to  switt 

decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labour' d  mole  away ; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  skf. 


THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISONi 
TO  LORD   CLARE. 

riEST  PRINTED   IP    MDCCLIT. 


THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON. 


Thanks,  my  lord,  for  your  venison,  for  finer  oi 

fatter 
Never  rang'd  in  a  forest,  or  sniok'd  in  a  platter ; 
The  haunch  was  a  picture  for  painters  to  study, 
The  fat  was   so  white,  and   the  lean  was  so 

rudJy  ; 
Though  my  stomach  was  sharp,  I  could  scarce 

help  regretting 
To  spoil  suf'.h  a  deliVate  picture  by  eating : 
I  had  thoughts,  in  my  chambers  to  place  it  in 

view, 
To  be  shown  to  my  friends  as  a  piece  of  virtu  ; 
As  in  some  Irish  houses,  where  things  are  so-so, 
One  gammon  of  bacon  hangs  up  for  a  show ; 
But,  for  eating  a  rasher  of  what  they  take  pride 

in. 
They'd  as  soon  think  of  eating  the  pan  it  is 

fried  in. 
But  hold  —  let  me  pause  —  don't  I  hear  vou 

pronounce. 
This  tale  of  the  bacon's  a  damnable  bounce  I 
£  49 


50  THa    HAUNCH    OF   VENISON. 

Well,  suppose  it  a  bounce — sure  a  poet  may 

try, 
By  a  bounce  now  and  then,  to  get  courage  to 

fly. 
But,  my  lord,  it's  no  bounce  :  I  protest  in  my 

turn, 
It's  a  truth — and  your  lordship  may  ask  Mr. 

Burn.* 
To  go.  on  with  my  tale  —  as  I  gaz'd  on  the 

haunch, 
I   thought   of   a  friend    that    was   trusty  and 

staunch  ; 
So  I  cut  if,  and  sent  h  to  Reynolds  undrest, 
To  paint  it  or  eat  it,  just  as  he  lik'd  best. 
Of  the  neck  and  the  breast  I  had  next  to  dis- 
pose ; 
'Twas  a  neck   and  a  breast   that   might  rival 

Monroe's ; 
But  in  parting  with  these  I  was  puzzled  again, 
With  the  how,  and  the  who,  and  the  where, 

and  the  when. 
There's   H — d.  and    C — y,  and   H — rth,  ana 

H— fit, 
I  think  they  love  venison  —  I  know  they  love 

beef. 
There's  my  countryman  Higgins — Oh !  let  hini 

alone. 
For  making  a  blunder,  or  picking  a  bone. 


THE   HAUNCH   OF    VENISON.  51 

But  hang  it — to  poets  who  seldom  can  eat, 
iTour  very  good  mutton's  a  very  good  treat ; 
Buch  dainties  to  them  their  heahh  it  might 

hurt, 
It's  Uke  sending  them  ruffles  when  wanting  a 

shirt. 
While  thus  I  debated,  in  reverie  centred, 
A.n  acquaintance,  a  friend  as  he  call'd  himself 

enter' d ; 
An  under-bred,  fine-spoken  fellow  was  he, 
And  he  smil'd  as  he  look'd  at  the  venison  and 

me. 
'  What  have  we  got  here  ? — Why  this  is  good 

eating ! 
Four  own  I  suppose — or  is  it  in  waiting?' 
'  Why  whose   should  it  be  ?'    cried  I,  with  a 

flounce : 
'I  get  these  things  often' — but  that  was  a 

bounce : 
'  Some  lords,  my  acquaintance,  that  settle  the 

nation. 
Are  pleas'd  to  be  kind — but  I  hate  ostentation.' 
'  If  that  be   the  case  then,'  cried  he,  very 
gay, 
*  I  am  glad  I  have  taken  this  house  in  my  way. 
To-morrow  you  take  a  poor  dinner  with  me  ; 
No  words — I  insist  on't — precisely  at  three  : 
We'll  have  Johnson,  and  Burke,  all  the  wit» 

will  be  th  ?re  ; 
My  acquaintance  is  sUght,  or  I'd  ask  my  Lord 

Clare. 


n  THE  HAUNCH   OF    VENISOW. 

And,  now  that  I  think  on' t,  as  I  am  a  -sinner, 
We  wanted  this  venison  to  make  out  a  dinner 
What  say  you  ?  a  pasty,  it  shall,  and  it  must, 
And  my  wife,  little  Kitty,  is  famous  for  cnist. 
Here,  porter  —  this  venison  with  me  to  Milo- 

End: 
No  stirring — I  beg — my  dear  friend — my  deat 

friend  ! ' 
Thus  snatching  his  hat,  he  brush' d  oif  Uke  the 

wind, 
And  the  porter  and  eatables  follow' d  behind. 

Left  alone  to  reflect,  having  emptied  my  shelf, 
And  '  nobody  with  me  at  sea  but  myself;'  * 
Though  I  could  not  help  thinking  my  gentleman 

hasty, 
Yet  Johnson  and  Burke,  and  a  good  venison 

pasty, 
Were  things  that  I  nevei  dislik'din  my  life, 
Though  clogg'd  with  a  coxcomb,  and  Kitty  his 

wife. 
So  next  day,  in  due   splendour  to  make   my 

approach, 
I  drove  to  his  door  in  my  own  hackney-coach. 
When  come  to  the  place  where  we  all  were  to 

dine, 
(A  chair-lumber' d  closet,  just  twelve  feet  by 

nine,) 


♦  See  the  letters  that  passed  between  his  Royal 
Highness  Henry  Duke  of  Cumberland,  and  ladj 
Rroavenor  ;  12m ).,  1769. 


THE   HAUNCH   OF   VENISON.  53 

My  friend  bade  me  welcome,  but  struck    ne 

quite  dumb, 
With  tidings  that  Johnson  and  Burke  would 

not  come  ; 
*For  I  knew  it,'  he  cried,  '  both  eternally  fail, 
The  one  with  his  speeches,  and  t'other  with 

Thrale  ; 
But  no  matter,  I'll  warrant  we'll  make  up  the 

party 
With  two  full  as  clever,  and  ten  times  as  hearty 
The  one  is  a  Scotchman,  the  other  a  Jew, 
They'rebothof  them  merry, andauthorslikeyou; 
TheonewritestheSnarler,theotherthe  Scourge; 
Some  think  he  writes  Cinna — he  owns  to  Pan- 
urge.' 
While  thus  he  describ'd  them  by  trade  and  by 

name. 

They  enter'd, and dinnerwasserv'das  they  came. 

At  the  top  a  fried  Uver  and  bacon  were  seen  ; 

At  the  bottom  was  tripe,  in  a  swingcng  tureen  ; 

At  the  sides  there  was  spinach  and  pudding 

made  hot ; 
In  the  middle  a  place  where  the  pasty — 'was  not 
Now,  my  lord,  as  for  tripe  it's  my  utter  aversion, 
And  your  bacon  I  hate  hke  a  Turk  or  a  Persian, 
So  there  I  sat  stuck,  like  a  horse  in  a  pound, 
While  the  bacon  and  liver  went  merrily  round 
But  what  vex'd  me  most  was  that  d 'a 

Scottish  rogue. 
With  his  long-winded  speeches,  his  smiles,  and 

his  brogue : 


H  THE   HAUXCH    0?    VEXISC  NT. 

And,  '  Madam,'  quoth  he,  '  may  this  bit  be  my 

poison, 
A  prettier  dinner  I  never  set  eyes  on  ; 
Pray  a  slice  of  your  Uver,  though  may  I  be  curst 
But  I've  eat  of  your  tripe  till  I'm  ready  to  burst. 
'There  tripe,'  quoth  the  Jew,  with  his  choco- 
late cheek, 
'  I  could  dine  on  this  tripe  seven  days  in  a  week ; 
I  like  these  here  dinners  so  pretty  and  small ; 
But  your  friend  there,  the  doctor,  eats  nothing 

at  all,' 
*  O  ho!'  quoth  my  friend,  '  he'll  come  on  in  a 

trice. 
He's  keeping  a  corner  foi  something  that's  nice: 
There's  pasty.' — '  A  pasty  !'  repeated  the  Jew: 
'  I  don't  care  if  I  keep  a  corner  for't  too.' 
'  What  the  de'il,  mon,  a  pasty  ?'  re-echoed  the 

Scot : 
'  Tho'  splitting,  I'll  still  keep  a  corner  for  that.* 
'  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,'  the  lady  cried  out ; 
'  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,'  was  echoed  about. 
While  thus  we  resolved,  and  the  pasty  delay'd, 
With  looks  that  quite  petrified,  enter'd  the  maid : 
A  visage  so  sad.  and  so  pale  with  affright, 
Wak'd  Priam  in  drawing  his  curtains  by  night. 
But  we  quickly  found  out  (for  who  could  mis- 
take her  ?) 
That  she  came  %vith  some  terrible  news  from 

the  baker : 
And  so  it  fell  out,  for  that  negligent  sloven 
Had  shut  out  the  pasty  on  shutting  his  oven. 


THS  BAUirCH  OF  VENISON.  5fl 

.Sad  Philomel  thus — ^but  let  similes  drop— 
And  now  that  I  think  on't,  the  story  may  stop 
To  be  plain,  my  good  lord,  it's  but  labour  mis- 

plac'd, 
To  send  such  good  verses  to  one  of  your  taste ; 
You've  got  an  odd  something — a  kind  of  dis 

earning — 
A  relish — a  taste — sicken' d  over  by  learning ; 
At  least,  it's  your  temper,  as  very  well  known, 
That  you  think  very  slightly  of  all  that's  your 

own  : 
So,  perhaps,  m  your  habits  of  thinking  ami5«3, 
Vou  may  make  a  mistake,  and  think  sUghtlf 

of  this. 


RETALlATIOlf ; 

tmn   PRINTED  Uf  MDCCLZXiy.»   AFTER 
AUTHOR'!  DRATH. 


RETALIATION. 


Of  old,  when  Scarron  his  companions  invited, 
Elach  guest  brought  his  dish,  and  the  feast  was 

united : 
If  cur  landlord*  suppUes  us  with  beef  and  with 

fish, 
Let  each  guest  bring  himself,  and  he  brings  the 

best  dish 
Our  deant  shall  be  venison,  just  fresh  from  the 

plains, 
Our  Burke  I  shall  be  tongue,  with  a  garnish  of 

brains, 
Our  Will^   shall   bi   wild-fowl,   of   excellent 

flavour, 
And  Dickll  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  the 

savour : 


*  The  master  of  Si.  James's  coffee-house,  where 
the  doctor,  and  the  friends  he  has  characterised  'n 
this  poem,  occasionally  dined. 

t  Doctor  Bernard,  dean  of  Derry  in  I-eiani. 

t  Mr.  Edmund  Burke. 

^  Mr.  William  Burke,  late  secretary  '  >  jencsra* 
Conway,  and  member  for  Bedwin. 

II  Mr.  Richard  Burke,  collector  of  Granada. 

59 


M  RETALIATION. 

Oui  Cumberland's*  sweet-bread  its  praise  shall 

obtain, 
And  Douglast  is  pudding,  substantial  and  plain : 
Our  Garrick'st  a  salad  :  for  in  him  we  see 
Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltness  agree  : 
To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I  am, 
That  Ridged  is  anchovy,    and   Reynoldsll   is 

Iamb ; 
That  Hickey'slI  a  capon,  and  by  the  same  rule, 
Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a  gooseberry-fool. 
A-t  a  dinner  so  various,  at  such  a  repast, 
Who'd  not  be  a  glutton,  and  stick  to  the  last  t 
Here,  waiter,  more  wine,  let  me  sit  while  I'm 

able, 
Till  all  my  companions  sink  under  the  table ; 
Then,\vithchaosandblundersencirclingmyhead, 
Let  me  ponder,  and  tell  what  I  think  of  the  dead. 


*  Mr.  Richard  Cumberland,  author  of  the  West 
Indian,  Fasliionable  I^nver,  the  Brothers,  and  other 
dramatic  pieces. 

I  Doctor  Doufflas,  canon  of  Windsor,  an  ingenious 
Scotch  gentleman,  who  has  no  less  distinguished 
himself  as  a  citizen  of  the  world,  than  a  sound  critic, 
m  detecting  several  literary  mistakes  (or  rather  for- 
Ijeries)  of  his  countrymen  :  particularly  Lauder  on 
Milton,  and  Bower's  History  of  the  Popes. 

t  David  Garrick,  Esq. 

^  Counsellor  John  Ridge,  a  gent'emaa  belongiog 
iO  the  Irish  bar. 

II  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 
TI  An  eminent  attornev. 


RETALIATION.  6j 

Here  lies  the  good  dean,*  re-united  .o  earth. 

^Vho  mLx'd  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wisdom 
with  mirth : 

If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt ; 

At  least,  in  six  weeks  1  could  not  find  'em  out , 

Vet  some  have  declar'd,  and  it  can't  be  denied 
'em 

That  sly-boots  was  cursedly  cunning  to  hide  'em 
Here  hes  our  good  Edmund, t  whose  geniua 
was  such, 

We  scarcely  can  praise  it,  or  blame  it  too  much ; 

Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrow'dhis  mind, 

And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  man- 
kind ; 

Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining 
his  throat 

To  persuade  Tommy  Townshendt  to  lend  hira 
a  vote ; 

Who  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  re- 
fining, 

And  thought  of  convincing  while  they  thought 
of  dining : 

Though  equal  to  all  things,  "or  all  things  unfit. 

Too  nice  for  a  statesmaii,  too  proud  for  a  wit ; 

For  a  patriot,  too  cool ;  for  a  drudge,  disobe- 
dient ; 

And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the  expe 
dient. 

*  Vide  page  59.  +  Ibid. 

X  Mr.  T.  Townsbend,  Member  for  Whitchurch. 


69  retahattow. 

In   fehort,   'twas  his  fate,  unemploy'd,   or  bl 

place,  sir. 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor. 
Here  lies  honest  VViUiam,*  whose  heart  waa 

a  mint, 
While  the  owner  ne'er  knew  half  the  good  that 

was  in't ; 
The  pupil  of  impulse,  it  fofc'd  him  along. 
His  conduct  still  right,  with  his  argument  wrong; 
Still  aiming  at  honour,  yet  fearing  to  roam. 
The  coachman   was   tipsy,  the   chariot  drove 

home. 
Would  you  ask  for  his  merits  ?  alas !  he  had 

none : 
What  was  good  was  spontaneous,  his  faults  were 

his  own. 
Here  lies  honest  Richard,  whose  fate  I  must 

sigh  at ; 
Alas,  that  such  frolic  should  now  be  so  quiet! 
What  spirits  were  his!  what  wit  and  what  whim! 
Now  breaking  a  jest,  and  now  breaking  a  limb;t 
Now  wrangling  and  grumbling  to  keep  up  the 

ball ; 
Now  teazing  and  vexing,  yet  laughing  at  all. 


*  Vide  page  59. 

\  Mr.  Richard  Burke  ;  vide  page  59.  This  gentle' 
man  having  sl*3htly  fractured  one  of  his  arms  and 
legs,  at  different  times,  the  doctor  had  rallied  him  o» 
those  accidents,  as  a  kind  of  retributive  justice  fot 
breaking  bis  je^ts  upon  other  people 


RETALIATTOX.  63 

fn  short,  so  provoking  a  devil  tvas  Dick, 
That  we  wish'd  him  full  ten  times  a  day  at  old 

Nick ; 
But,  missing  his  mirth  and  agreeable  vv^in, 
As  often  we  wish'd  to  have  Dick  back  again. 

Here  Cumberland*  lies,  having  acted  his  parts, 
The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts  ; 
A  flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they  are; 
His  gallants  are  all  faultless,  his  women  divine, 
And  Comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine  : 
Like  a  tragedy-queen  he  has  dizen'd  her  out, 
Or  rather  like  Tragedy  giving  a  rout. 
His  fools  have  their  follies  so  lost  in  a  crowd 
Of  virtues  and  feelings,  that  Folly  grows  proud ; 
And  coxcombs,  ahke  in  their  failings  alone, 
Adoptinghis portraits,  are  pleas'dwiththeir  own. 
Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught  ? 
Or  wherefore  his  characters  thus  without  fiiult  ? 
Say,  was  it  that,  vainly  directing  his  view 
To  find  out  men's  virtues,  and  finding  them  few 
Quite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf, 
He  grew  lazy  at  last,  and  drew  from  himself? 

Here  Douglast  retires  from  his  toils  to  relax, 
The  scourge  of  impostors,  the  terror  of  quacks  ; 
Come,   all  ye  quack  bards,   and  ye  quacking 

divines. 
Come,  and  dance  on  the  spot  where  your  tyrant 

reclines. 


64  RETALIATION. 

When  satire  and  censure  encircled  his  tij"0ne, 
I  fear'd  for  your  safety,  I  fear'd  for  my  own  ; 
But  now  he  is  gone,  and  we  want  a  detector, 
Our  Dodds*  shall  be  pious,  our  Kenrickst  shall 

lecture  ; 
MacphersonI  write  bombast,  and  call  it  a  style, 
Our  Townshend"5t.  make  speeches,  and  I  shaU 

compile  ; 
New  Landers  and  BowersH  the   Tweed  shall 

cross  over, 
No  countryman  living  their  tricks  to  discover ; 
Detection  her  taper  shall  quench  to  a  spark, 
And  Scotchman  meet  Scotchman  and  cheat  in 

the  dark. 
Here  lies  David  Garrick.*^  describe  him  who 

can, 
\n  abridgement  of  all  that    was    pleasant    in 

man  ; 
As  an  actor;  contest  without  rival  to  shine  : 
As  a  wit,  if  not  tirst,  in  the  very  first  line  ; 
Yet,  with  talents  like   these,  and  an  excellent 

heart, 
The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art. 


*  The  R(!V.  Dr.  Dodd. 

t  Dr.  Kenrick,  who  read  Lectures  al  the  Devil  Ta- 
vern, under  the  title  of 'The  School  of  Shakespean 

t  James  Macpherson,  Esq.,  who  lately,  from  t^ 
mere  force  of  his  style,  wrote  down  the  first  poet  of 
all  antiquity. 

i  Vide  page  61.  j|60.  U  60. 


RETALIATION.  65 

Like  an  iK-judged  beauty,  his  colours  he  spread, 
And  beplaster'd  with  rouge  his    own    natural 

red. 
On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affec-ting ; 
*Twas  only  that,  when  he  was  off,  he  was  acting. 
With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 
He  turn'd  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a-day ; 
Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly 

sick 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick  , 
He  cast  off  his  friends  as  a  huntsman  his  pack ; 
For  he  knew,  when  he  pleas'd  he  could  whistle 

them  back. 
Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallowed  what 

came, 
And  the  puff  of  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame  ; 
'Till,  his  rehsh  grown  callous,  almost  to  disease. 
Who  pepper' d  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 
But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind. 
If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 
Ye  Kenricks,*  ye  Kellys,t  and  Woodfallst  so 

grave. 
What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and 

you  gave  ! 


♦  Vide  page  64. 

t  Mr.  Hugh  Kelly,  author  of  False  Delicacy,  Word 
W)  the  Wise,  Clementina,  School  for  Wives,  &c.  &c. 

t  Mr.  W.  Woodfall,  printer  of  the  Morning  Chro 
nicle. 


66  RETAI.IATION. 

How  did  Grub-Street  re-echo  the  shouts  that 

yoii  rais'd, 
Wliile   he  was  be-Roscius'd,  and  you   were 

beprais'd! 
But  peace  to  his  sph-it,  wherever  it  flies, 
To  act  as  an  angel  and  mix  with  the  skies : 
Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  hia 

skill, 
Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will ; 
Old  Shakespeare  receive  him   with  praise  and 

with  love, 
And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys*  above. 
Here  Hickey  t  rechnes,  a  most  blunt,  pleasaut 

creature. 
And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good-nature  ; 
He  cherish'd  hisfriend,and  herelish'd  a  bumper, 
Yet  one   fault   he    had,  and   that  one   was  a 

thumper. 
Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a  miser : 
I  answer.  No,  No,  for  he  always  was  wiser. 
Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat  ? 
His  very  worst  foe  can't  accuse  him  of  that. 
Perhaps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go. 
And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest  ?  Ah,  no  ? 
Then  what  was   his  faihng  ?  come  tell  it,  and 

burn  ye, 
He  was,  could  ne  help  it  ?  a  special  attorney. 


•  Vide  page  65.  f  Vide  page  60. 


EeiiLIATiON.  67 

Here  Reynolds*  is  laid,  and,  to  tell  yja  ray 

mind, 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind ; 
fJis  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand; 
His  manners  were  gentle,  complying  and  bland 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part. 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart : 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering; 
When  they  judg'd  without  skill,  he  was  still 

hard  of  hearing : 
When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Gorre- 

gios,  and  stuff, 
He  shifted  his  trumpett,  and  only  took  snuff. 


♦  Vide  page  60. 

f  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  was  bo  remarkably  deaf  aa 
to  be  under  the  i  ece.Bsity  of  ueinf  &n  ear-trumpet  in 
company. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

After  the  fourth  edition  of  this  poem  teas  printed^ 
the  publisher  received  the  followins  epitaph  on 
Mr.  Whitefoord*  from  a  friend  of  the  lata 
doctor  Goldsmith. 

Here  Whitefoord  reclines ;  and  deny  it  who  can, 
Though  he  merrily  liv'd,  he  is  now  a  gravet 

man  : 
Rare  compound  of  oddity,  frolic  and  fun 
Who  reUsh'd  a  joke,  and  rejoic'd  in  a  pun  ; 
Whose  temper  was  generous,  open,  sincere; 
A  stranger  to  flatt'ry,  a  stranger  to  fear  ; 
Who  scatter'd  around  wit  and  humour  at  will; 
Whose  daily  ho  ?i mots  half  a  column  might  fill; 
A  Scotchman,  from  pride  and  from  prejudice 

free ; 
A  scholar,  yet  surely  no  pedant  was  he. 

What  pity,  alas  !  that  so  lib'ral  a  mind 
Should  so  long  be  to  newspaper-essays  confin'd' 


*  Mr.  Caleb  Whitefoord,  author  of  many  humour 
ous  essays. 

t  Mr.  W.  was  so  notorious  a  punster,  that  doctor 
Goldsmith  used  to  say  it  was  impossible  to  keep  him 
company  without  being  infected  with  the  itch  of 
Dunning 

68 


•     POSTSCRIPT.  69 

WTio  perhaps  to  the  summit  of  science  could 

soar, 
Yet  content  if  '  the  table  he  set  in  a  roar  ;' 
Whose  talents  to  fill  any  station  were  fit. 
Yet  happy  if  Woodfall*  confess' d  him  a  v/it. 
Ye   newspaper-witlings !    ye  pert   scribbling 

folks! 
Who  copied  his  squibs  and  re-echoed  his  jokes; 
Ye  tame  imitators,  ye  servile  herd,  come, 
Still  follow  your  master,  and  visit  his  tomb  ; 
To  deck  it,  bring  with  you  festoons  of  the  vine, 
And  copious  libations  bestow  on  his  shrine  ; 
Then  strew  all  around  it  (you  can  do  no  less) 
Cross-readings,  ship-news,  and  mistakes  of  the 


press 


Merry  Whitefoord,  farewell !  for  thy  sake  I 
admit 
That  a  Scot  may  have  humour,  I  had  almost 

said  wit ; 
This  debt  to  thy  mem'ry  I  cannot  refuse. 
Thou  best-humour'd    man   with   the   vorst- 
humour' d  muse.' 


*  Mr.  H.  S.  Woodfall,  printer  of  the  Public  Adver- 
tiser. 

+  Mr.  Whitefoord  has  frf  quently  indulged  the  town 
with  humourous  pieces  uider  those  titles  in  th« 
Publi(  Advertiser. 


THE  HERMIT  8 
3i  3ttUal». 

FIRST  PRINTED   IN  MDCCLJT. 


The  folLowivg  Letter,  t^ddressed  t  the  Printer  if  tJu 
St.  Jameses  Chronicle,  appeared  in  that  Paper,  in 
Tune,  1767. 


As  there  is  nol  hin?  I  dislike  so  much  as  newspaper 
controversy,  particularly  upon  trifles,  permit  me  to 
be  as  concise  as  possible  in  informing  a  correspond- 
ent of  yours,  that  I  recommended  Blainville's  Tra 
vels,  because  I  thought  the  book  was  a  good  one  ;  and 
I  think  so  still.  I  said,  I  was  told  by  the  bookseller 
that  it  was  then  first  published  ;  but  in  that,  it  seems, 
I  was  misinformed,  and  my  reading  was  not  exten- 
sive enough  to  set  me  right. 

Another  correspondent  of  yours  accuses  me  of 
having  taken  a  ballad,  I  published  some  time  ago 
from  one  by  the  ingenious  Mr.  Percy.*  I  do  not  think 
there  is  any  great  resemblance  between  the  two 
pieces  in  question.  If  there  be  any,  his  ballad  is  taken 
from  mine.    I  read  it  to  Mr.  Percy  some  years  ago ; 


♦  The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray.    "Reliq.  of  Anc  Fo. 
etry,'  vol.  -    :.  243. 

7S 


nnd  he  (as  we  both  conaldered  theae  things  as  triflei 
at  best)  told  me,  with  his  usual  good-humour,  the 
next  time  I  saw  him,  that  he  had  taken  my  plan  to 
form  the  fragments  of  Shakspeare  into  a  ballud  of 
his  own.  He  then  read  me  his  little  cento,  if  I  may 
so  call  it,  and  I  highly  approved  it  Such  petty  anec- 
dotesas  these  are  scarce  worth  printing  :  and,  were 
it  not  for  the  busy  disposition  of  some  of  your  corre- 
spondents, the  public  should  never  have  known  that 
he  owes  me  the  hint  of  his  ballad,  or  that  1  am  oblig- 
ed to  his  friendship  and  learning  for  communication! 
of  a  much  more  important  nature. 
I  am  Sir, 

Yours,  &c. 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


THE  HERMIT. 


'  Ti  RN,  gentle  hermit  of  tlie  dale, 

And  guide  my  lonely  way, 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vala 

With  hospitable  ray. 

'  For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread. 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow  ; 

Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread; 
Seem  length' ning  as  I  go. ' 

*  Forbear,  my  son,'  the  Hermit  criea. 

'  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom  ; 
For  yonder  fahhless  phantom  flies 

To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

'  Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 

My  door  is  open  still ; 
And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

I  give  it  with  good.will 

'  Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 
Whate'er  my  cell  bestows  ; 

My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare 
My  blessing  and  repose. 

79 


'  THE   HERMIT. 

*  N  o  flocks  that  "^ange  the  valley  free, 

To  slaughter  1  condemn  : 
Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 

I  learn  to  pity  them  : 

But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 

A  guihless  feast  I  bring  ; 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied. 

And  water  from  the  spring. 

'Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego; 

All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong; 
Man  wants  but  httle  here  below,  ^ 

Nor  wants  that  little  long.' 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descendt^ 

His  gentle  accents  fell : 
The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure 

The  lonely  mansion  lay  ; 
A  refuge  to  the  neighb'ring  poor, 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 

Reqiur'd  a  master's  care  ; 
The  wicket  op'ning  with  a  latch. 

Received  the  harmless  pair. 

An.d  now  when  busy  crowds  retire 

To  take  their  evening  rest, 
The  Hermit  trimm'd  his  little  fire, 

And  cheer'd  his  pensive  guest* 


THE   BEHMIT. 

And  Spread  his  regetable  store, 
And  gauy  press' d  and  smil'd , 

And,  skill' d  in  legendary  lore. 
The  lingering  hours  beguil'd. 

Around  in  sympathetic  mirth 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries  ; 
The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth  ; 

The  crackhng  faggot  flies. 

But  nothing  coul^J  a  charm  impart, 
To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe  ; 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied, 
With  answermg  care  opprest : 

And,  '  Whence,  unhappy  youth,'  he  crwd 
'  The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 

*  From  better  habhations  spurn'd, 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ; 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturn'd, 
Or  unregarded  love  ? 

'Alas !  the  joys  that  fortune  brings 

Are  trifling,  and  decay  : 
And  thosf  who  prize  the  paltry  thiiigu, 

More  trifling  still  than  they. 

*  And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep  ; 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 
And  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ? 


78  THE   HiJRMIT. 

*  And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 

The  modern  fair  one's  jest ; 
On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 

To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

'For  shame,  fond  youth  !  thy  sorrows  hush 
And  spurn  the  sex,'  he  said: 

But  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 
His  love-lorn  guest  betray'd. 

i  Surpris'd  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 

Swift  mantling  to  the  view; 
Like  colours  o'er  the  morning  skies, 
As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 

Alternate  ?pread  alarms : 
The  lovely  stranger  stands  confest 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

And,  'Ah,  forgive  a  stranger  rude, 
A  wretch  forlorn,'  she  cried ; 

'  Whose  feet  unhallow'd  thus  intrude 
Where  heaven  and  vou  reside. 

'  But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share, 
Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray ; 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

My  father  liv'd  beside  the  Tyne, 
A  wealthy  lord  was  he  ; 
And  all  his  wealth  was  mark'd  as  mine, 
He  had  but  only  mo 


THE  HERMIT, 


To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 

Unnumber'd  suitors  came ; 
Who  prais'd  me  for  imputed  charms. 
And  felt  or  feign' d  a  flame. 

'  Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 

With  richest  proffers  strove  ; 
Among  the  rest  young  Edvsnn  bow'd. 

But  never  talk'd  of  love. 

•  In  humble,  simplest  habit  clad, 

No  weahh  or  power  had  he ; 
Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 

But  these  were  all  to  me. 
'  The  blossom  opening  to  the  day. 

The  dews  of  heav'n  refin'd, 
Could  nought  of  purity  display, 

To  emulate  his  mind. 

•  The  dew,  the  blossoms  of  the  tree, 

With  charm?  inconstant  shine  ; 
Their  charms  were  his,  but,  woe  to  me. 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 

Importunate  and  vain ; 
And,  while  his  passion  touch' d  my  heart, 

I  triumph' d  in  his  pain. 
'  Till,  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 

He  left  me  to  my  pride  ; 
And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret  where  he  died. 


80  THE   HERMIT. 

*  But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay  : 
I'll  seek  the  soUtude  he  sought, 
And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

*  And  there  forlorn,  despairing,  nid, 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  die  ; 

*  Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  djQ, 

And  so  for  him  will  I.' 

*  Forbid  it.  Heaven  I'  the  Hermit  cried, 

And  clasp' d  her  to  his  breast : 
The  wondering  fair  one  turned  to  chide  J 
'T  was  Edwin's  self  that  prest ! 

*  Turn,  AngeHna,  ever  dear, 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 
Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

'  Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart,  j 

And  every  care  resign  : 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part. 

My  life  — my  all  that's  mine  ? 

'  No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part. 

We'll  live  and  love  so  true  ; 
The  sigii  that  rends  thy  constant  heart, 

Shall  break  thy  Edwin's  too.* 


THE  DOUBLE  TRA.NSFORMATION 


SECLUcrD  from  domestic  strife. 

Jack  Bookworm  led  a  college  life  ; 

A  fellowship  at  tweniy-tive 

Made  him  the  happiest  man  alive  ; 

He  drank  his  glass,  and  crack'd  his  joke^ 

And  freshrneu  v/ouJer'd  as  he  spoke. 

Such  pleasures,  unallay'd  with  care, 
JCould  any  accident  impair  ? 
Could  Cupid's  shaft  at  length  transfix 
Our  swain  arriv'd  at  thirty-six? 
0  had  the  archer  ne'er  come  down 
To  ravage  in  a  country  town, 
Or  Flavia  been  content  to  stop 
At  triumphs  in  a  Fleet-street  shop  ! 
O  had  her  eyes  forgot  to  blaze, 
Or  Jack  had  wanted  eyes  to  gaze  ! 

O  ! But  let  exclamation  cease, 

Her  presence  banish' d  all  his  peace  : 
So,  with  decorum  all  things  carried. 
Miss  frown'd,  and  blush'd,   a  ad  then   was- 
married. 

Q  81 


62  DOJBLE  TKANsrORMATIO:!. 

Need  we  expose  to  vulgar  sight 
The  raptures  of  the  bridal  night  ? 
Need  we  intrude  on  hallow' d  ground, 
Or  draw  the  curtains  close  around  ? 
Let  it  suffice,  that  each  had  charms  ] 
He  clasp' d  a  goddtss  in  his  arms  ; 
And,  though  she  felt  his  usage  rough, 
Yet  in  a  man  'twas  well  enough. 

The  honey-moon  like  lightning  flew; 
The  second  brought  its  transports  too. 
A  third,  a  fourth,  were  not  amiss, 
The  fifth  was  friendship  mix'd  with  bliss 
But,  when  a  twelvemonth  pass'd  away, 
Jack  found  his  goddess  made  of  clay  : 
Found  half  the  charms  that  deck'd  her  face 
Arose  from  powder,  shreds,  or  lace; 
But  still  the  worst  remain' d  behind, 
That  very  face  had  robb'd  her  mind. 

Skill' d  in  no  other  arts  was  she, 
But  dressing,  patching,  repartee  ; 
And,  just  as  humour  rose  or  fell,  i 

By  turns  a  slattern  or  a  belle  ;  ' 

'Tis  true  she  dress' d  with  modern  grace, 
Half  naked  at  a  ball  or  race  ; 
But  when  at  home,  at  board  or  bed, 
Five  greasy  night-caps  wrapp'd  her  head. 
Could  so  much  beauty  condescend 
To  be  a  dull  domestic  friend  ? 
Could  any  curtain- lectures  bring 
To  decency  so  fine  a  thing  ? 


*.OUBLE  TRANSFOEMATIOIi.  83 

In  short,  by  night  'twas  fits  or  fretting ; 

By  day  'twas  gadding  or  coquetting. 

Fond  to  be  seen,  Bhe  kept  a  bevy 

Of  powder' d  coxcombs  at  her  levee; 

The  'squire  and  captain  took  their  stations, 

And  twenty  other  near  relations  ; 

Jack  suck'd  his  pipe,  and  often  broke 

A  sigh  in  suffocating  smoke  ; 

While  all  their  hours  were  past  between 

Insulting  repartee  or  spleen. 

Thus  as  her  faults  each  day  were  knovvn. 
He  thinks  her  features  coarser  grown : 
He  fancies  every  vice  she  shows, 
Or  thins  her  lip,  or  points  her  nose  : 
Whenever  rage  or  envy  rise, 
How  wide  her  mouth  how  wild  her  eyes ; 
He  knows  not  how,  but  so  it  is, 
Her  face  is  grown  a  knowing  phiz  ; 
And,  though  her  fops  are  wondrous  civi!, 
He  thinks  her  ugly  as  the  devil. 

Now,  to  perplex  the  ravell'd  noose, 
As  each  a  different  way  pursues, 
While  sullen  or  loquacious  strife 
Promis'd  to  hold  them  on  for  Hfe, 
That  dire  disease  whose  ruthless  power 
Withers  the  beauty's  transient  flower, 
Lo  I  the  small-pox,  whose  horrid  glare 
Levell'd  its  terrors  at  the  fair  ; 
A.nd,  rifling  every  youthful  grace, 
Lefr  but  the  remnant  of  a  face. 


64  DOUBLE   TRANSFORM ATlOif. 

The  glasjs,  grown  hateful  to  her  sight 
Reflected  now  a  perfect  fright : 
Each  former  art  she  vainly  tries, 
To  bring  back  lustre  to  her  eyes. 
In  vain  she  tries  her  paste  and  creams, 
To  smooth  her  skin,  or  hide  its  seams ; 
Her  country  beaux  and  city  cousins, 
Lovers  no  more,  flew  off  by  dozens  : 
The  'squire  himself  was  seen  to  yield, 
And  e'en  the  captain  quit  the  field. 

Poor  madam  now,  condemn' d  to  hack 
The  rest  of  life  with  anxious  Jack, 
Perceiving  others  fairly  flown. 
Attempted  pleasing  hira  alone. 
Jack  soon  was  dazzled  to  behold 
Her  present  face  surpass  the  old  ; 
With  modesty  her  cheeks  are  dy'd, 
Humility  displaces  pride  ; 
For  tawdry  rinery,  is  seen 
A  person  ever  neatly  clean: 
No  more  presuming  on  her  sway. 
She  learns  good- nature  every  day: 
Serenely  gay, and  strict  in  duty, 
Jack  fijids  his  wife  a  perfei  t  beautj^o 


THE  GIFT. 
TO  mis, 

IN  BOVi  -.STREET,    COVENT-GAEDK*^ 

SkJ,  cruel  Iris,  pretty  rake, 

Dear  mercenary  beauty, 
What  annual  off'ring  shall  I  make. 

Expressive  of  my  duty  ? 

My  heart,  a  victim  to  thine  eyes, 

Should  I  at  once  deliver. 
Say,  would  the  angry  fair-one  prize 

The  gift,  who  slights  the  giver  ? 

A  bill,  a  jewel,  watch,  or  toy, 
My  rivals  give — and  let  'em. 

If  gems,  or  gold,  impart  a  joy, 
I'll  give  them — when  I  get  'em. 

I'll  give — but  not  the  full-blown  rose. 
Or  rose-bud  more  in  fashion  ; 

Suchshort-liv'd  off 'rings  but  disclose 
A  transitory  passion : 

I'll  give  thee  something  yet  unpaid. 
Not  less  sincere  than  civil : 

I'll  give  thee — ah  !  too  charming  maid, 
I'll  give  thee — to  the  devil, 

85 


THE  LOGICIANS  RLFUTED. 

'TN    IMITAXrON    OF   DEAN    SWIFT.) 

Lo&iciANS  have  but  ill  defin'd 
As  rational  the  human  mind : 
Reason  the V  say,  belongs  to  man; 
But  let  them  prove  it  if  they  can. 
Wise  Arist  'tie  and  Smiglesius, 
By  ratiocinations  specious. 
Have  strove  to  prove  with  great  precision, 
Wise  definition  and  division, 
Homo  est  ratione  prcBditum  ; 
But  for  my  soul  I  cannot  credit  'em, 
And  must  in  spite  of  them  maintain, 
That  man  and  all  his  ways  are  vain ; 
And  that  this  boasted  lord  of  nature 
Is  both  a  weak  and  erring  creature  ; 
That  instinct  is  a  surer  guide 
Than  reason,  boasting  mortals'  pride  ; 
And  that  brute  beasts  are  far  before  'em, 
Dens  est  anima  brutorum. 
Who  ever  knew  an  honest  brute 
At  law  his  neighbour  prosecute, 
Bring  action  for  assault  and  battery, 
Di  friend  beguile  with  lies  and  flattery  t 

86 


THE   LOGICIANS   REFDTED. 

O'er  plains  they  ramble  unconfin'd, 

No  politics  disturb  their  mind  ; 

They  eat  their  meals,  and  take  their  aport. 

Nor  know  who's  in  or  out  at  court. 

They  never  to  the  levee  go, 

To  treat  as  dearest  friend  a  foe  ; 

They  never  importune  his  grace, 

Nor  ever  cringe  to  men  in  place  ; 

Nor  undertake  a  dirty  job, 

Nor  draw  the  quill  to  write  for  Bob. 

Fi aught  with  invective  they  ne'er  go 

To  folks  at  Paternoster -row  : 

No  judges,  fiddlers,  dancing-masters, 

No  pickpockets,  or  poetasters, 

Are  known  to  honest  quadrupeds  ; 

No  single  brute  his  fellows  leads. 

Brutes  never  meet  in  bloody  fray, 

Nor  cut  e'ich  other's  thioats  for  pay. 

Of  beasts,  it  is  confess'd,  the  ape 

Comes  nearest  us  in  human  shape  ; 

Like  man  he  imitates  each  fashion. 

And  malice  is  his  ruling  passion  : 

But  both  in  malice  and  grimaces, 

A  courtier  any  ape  surpasses. 

Behold  him,  humbly,  cringing  wah 

Upon  the  minister  of  state  : 

View  him  soon  after  to  inferiors 

Aping  the  conduct  of  superiors  : 

He  promises  with  equal  air, 

And  to  perform  takes  equal  care. 


88       STANZAS   ON   THE  TAKING  OF   QUEBKC 

He  in  his  turn  finds  imitators  : 
At  court  the  porters,  lacqueys,  waiters. 
Their  masters'  manners  still  contract, 
And  footmen,  lords  and  dukes  can  act. 
Thus  at  the  court,  both  great  and  small. 
Behave  aUke,  for  all  ape  all. 


STANZAS 

ON   THE  TAKING   OF   QUEBEC. 

Amtdst  the  clamour  of  exulting  joys, 

Which  triumph  forces  from  the  patriot  heart 

Grief  dares  to  mingle  her  soul-piercing  voice, 
And  quells  the  raptures  which  from  pleasure 
start. 

O  Wolfe  !  to  thee  a  streaming  flood  of  woe, 
Sighing,  we  pay,  and  think  e'en  conquest  dear; 

Quebec  in  vain  shall  teach  our  breasts  to  glow, 
While  thy  sad  fate  extorts  the  heart-'wrung 
tear. 

Alive,  the  foe  thy  dreadful  vigour  fled. 
And  saw  thee  fall  with  joy-pronouncing  eyes : 

Yet  they  shall  know  thou  conquerest,  though 
dead  ; 
Since  from  thy  tomb  a  thousand  heroes  rise. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  AN  AUTHOR'S 
BED-CHAMBER. 

Where  the  Red  Lion,  staring  o'er  the  way, 
Invites  each  passing  stranger  that  can  pay  ; 
Where    Calvert's   butt,    and   Parson's    blach 

champaign. 
Regale  the  drabs  and  bloods  of  Dniry-lane  ; 
There,  in  a  lonely  room,  from  bailiff  snug. 
The  muse  found  Scroggen  stretch'd  beneath  a 

rug. 
A  w^indow  patch' d  with  paper  lent  a  ray. 
That  dimly  show'd  the  state  in  which  he  lay. 
The  sanded  Boor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread, 
The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread, 
The  royal  game  of  goose  was  there  in  view. 
And  the  twelve  rules  the  royal  martyr  drew ; 
The  Seasons,  fram'd  with  listing,  found  a  place, 
And  brave  prince   William  shew'd  his  lamp 

black  face. 
The  morn  was  cold,  he  views  with  keen  desire 
The  rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a  fire  : 
With  beer  and  milk  arrears  the  frieze    wa« 

scor'd, 
And  five  crack'd  tea-cups  dress'd  the  chimney 

board  ; 
A  night-cap  deck'd  his  brows  instead  of  bay, 
A  cap  by  night  --a  stocking  all  the  day  ! 

89 


A  NEW  SIMILE. 

I  (in  the  manner  of  swift/' 

!  Long  had  I  sought  in  vain  to  find 

I  A  likeness  for  the  scribbUng  kind  ; 

j  The  modern  scribbUng  kind,  who  writ€ 

I  In  wit,  and  sense,  and  nature's  spite 

!  'Till  reading,  I  forget  what  day  on, 

t  A  chapter  outof  Tooke's  Pantheon, 

I  I  think  I  met  with  something  there 

j  To  suit  my  purpose  to  a  hair. 

But  let  us  not  proceed  too  furious, 
First  please  to  turn  to  god  Mercurius . 
You'll  find  him  pictur'd  at  full  length 
In  book  the  second,  page  the  tenth: 
The  stress  of  all  my  proofs  on  him  I  lay^ 
And  now  proceed  we  to  our  simile. 

Imprimis,  pray  observe  his  hat. 
Wings  upon  either  side — mark  that. 
Well '  what  is  it  from  thence  we  gather  \ 
Why,  these  denote  a  brain  of  feather. 
A  brain  of  feather !  very  right, 
With  wit  that's  flighty,  learning  light ; 
Such  as  to  modern  bard  's  decreed. 
A.  just  comparif on, — proceed. 

90 


A   NEW   SIMILE.  91 

In  the  next  place,  his  feet  peruse, 
Wings  grow  again  from  both  his  shoes ; 
Design'd,  no  doubt,  their  part  to  bear, 
And  waft  his  godship  through  the  air : 
And  here  my  simile  unites, 
For,  in  a  modern  poet's  flights, 
I'm  sure  it  may  !;e  justly  said, 
His  feet  are  useful  as  his  head. 

Lastly,  vouchsafe  t'  observe  his  hand, 
Fill'd  with  a  snake-encircled  wand  ; 
By  classic  authors  term'd  Caduceus 
And  highly  fam'd  for  several  uses. 
To  wit,  most  wondrously  endu'd. 
No  poppy-water  half  so  good  ; 
For,  let  folks  only  get  a  touch, 
Its  soporific  virtue  's  such, 
Though  ne'er  so  much  awake  before, 
That  quickly  they  begin  to  snore. 
Add  too,  what  certain  writers  tell. 
With  this  he  drives  men's  souls  to  helL 

Now  to  apply,  begin  we  then  : 
His  wand  's  a  modern  author's  pen  ; 
The  serpents  round  about  it  twin'd, 
Denote  him  of  the  reptile  kind  ; 
Denote  the  rage  with  which  he  writes 
His  frothy  slaver,  venom' d  bites  , 
An  equal  semblance  still  to  keep, 
Alike  too  both  conduce  to  sleep. 
This  difference  only  :  as  the  god 
Drove  souls  to  Tartarus  with  his  rod. 


^  THE    CLOVjy  S    REPLT. 

With  his  goose -quill  the  scribbling  elf, 
Instead  of  others,  damns  himself. 

And  here  my  simile  almost  tript. 
Yet  grai  t  a  word  by  way  of  postcript. 
Moreover,  Merc'ry  had  a  faihng: 
Well !  what  of  that  ?  out  ^^•ith  it— Stealing ; 
In  which  all  modern  bards  agree, 
Being  each  as  great  a  thief  as  he. 
But  e'en  this  deity's  existence 
Shall  lend  my  simile  assistance. 
Our  modern  bards  !  why.  what  a  pox 
Are  they  but  senseless  stones  and  blocks  t 


THE  CLOWN'S  REPLY. 

John  Trot  was  desired  by  two  ^vitty  peers 
To  tell  them  the  reason  why  asses  had  ears- 
'A'nt  please  you, 'quoth  John,  '  I'm  not  given 

to  letters, 
Nor  dare   I  pretend  to   know  more  than  my 

betters ; 
Howe'er,  from  this  time  I  shall  ne'er  see  your 

graces, 
As  I  hope  to  be  sav'd,   without  thinking  on 


Edi?iour<rh,  175? 


AN  ELEGY 

CJJ    THE    DEATH    OF    A   MA1>    !iO«^ 

liooD  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  mj'  song  ; 
And  if  you  find  it  wond'rous  short 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 
Of  whom  the  world  might  say 

That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran, 
Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 
To  comfort  friends  and  foes  ; 

The  naked  every  day  he  clad, 
When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp  and  hound 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends. 

But  when  a  pique  began. 
The  dog,  to  gain  his  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 


L^ 


94  STANZAS   ON   WOM&IT. 

Around  from  all  the  neighbouring  street* 
The  womiering  neighbours  ran, 

And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 
To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

The  wound  it  seem'd  both  sore  and  sad, 

To  every  Christian  eye  ; 
And  wane  iney  swore  the  dog  was  mad 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  Hght, 
That  show'd  the  rogues  they  lied 

The  man  recovered  of  the  bite, 
The  dog  it  was  that  died. 


STANZAS  ON  WOMAN. 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 
And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 

What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy 
NVhut  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  1 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover. 
To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eve, 

To  give  repentance  tc  her  lover, 
And  wriner  his  buscm — is,  to  dJe 


PR  3L0GUE  TO  ZOBRIDE, 

A    TRAGEDY. 

In   these  bold    timjs,   when   Learning's  soiu 

explore 
The  distant  climates,  and  the  savage  shore  ; 
When  wise  astronomers  to  India  steer, 
And  quit  for  Venus  many  a  brighter  here ; 
While  botanists,  all  cold  to  smiles  and  dimpling 
Forsake  the  fair,  and  patiently  go  simpling; 
Our  bard  into  the  general  spirit  enters, 
And  fits  his  little  frigate  for  adventures. 
With  Scythian  stores  and  trinkets  deeply  laden, 
He   this   way  steers   his   course,  in   hopes   of 

trading ; 
Yet,  ere  he  lands,  has  order' d  me  before 
To  make  an  observation  on  the  shore. 
Where  are  we  driven  ?  our  reckoning  sure  ia 

lost? 
This  seems  a  rogky  and  a  dangerous  coast. 
Lord,  what  a  sultry  cUmate  am  I  under ! 
Yon     ill-foreboding     cloud     seems    big    with 

thunder ;  [  Upper  gallery. 

There  mangroves  spread,  and  larger  than  I've 

seen  'em —  [Pit. 

Here  trees  of  stately  size,  and  billing  turtles  in 

'em-  -  [Balconies 


96  SONG. 

Here  ill- condition  d  oranges  abound —    [Stage. 
And  apples,  bitter  apples,  strew  the  ground  : 

[Tasting  them. 
The  inhabitants  are  cannibals,  I  fear : 
I  heard  a  hissing — there  are  serpents  here  ! 
0,  there  the  people  are — best  keep  my  distance  ; 
Our  captain  (gentle  natives)  craves  assistance ; 
Our  ship's  well-stored — in  yonder  creek  we've 

laid  her. 
His  honour  is  no  mercenary  trader. 
This  is  his  first  adventure  :  lend  him  aid, 
And  we  may  chance  to  drive  a  thriving  trade. 
His  goods,  he  hopes,  are  prime,  and  broughl 

from  far. 
Equally  fit  for  gallantry  and  war. 
What,  no  reply  to  promises  so  ample  ? 
— I'd  best  step  back,  and  order  up  a  sample. 


SONG. 

O  MEMORY,  thou  fond  deceiver, 

Still  importunate  and  vain,  * 
To  former  joys,  recurring  ever, 

And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain  ! 

Thou,  Uke  the  world,  the  opprest  oppressing, 
Thy  smiles  increase  the  wretch's  woe  ; 

ii  od  he  who  wants  each  other  blessing, 
In  thee  must  ever  find  a  foe. 


RflLOGUE; 

•POKKIi    ^r  MB.  LEE  LEWES,  IN  THE    CHARi  CTM 
OF  HARLEQUIN,  AT  HIS  BENEFIT. 

Hold  !  prompter,  hold !   a  word  before  youf 

nonsense ; 
I'd  speak  a  word  or  two,  to  ease  my  conscience. 
My  pride  forbids  it  ever  should  be  said, 
My  heels  ecUps'd  the  honours  of  my  head ; 
That  I  found  humour  in  a  piebald  vest, 
Or  ever  thought  that  jumping  was  a  jest. 

[Takes  off  his  mask. 
Whence  and  what  art  thou,  visionary  birth  ? 
Nature  disowns,  and  reason  scorns,  thy  mirth 
In  thy  black  aspect  every  passion  sleeps, 
The  joy  that  dimples,  and' the  woe  that  weeps. 
How  hast  thou  fill'd  the  scene  with  all  thy 

brood, 
Of  fools  pursuing,  and  of  fools  pursu'd! 
Whose  ins  and  outs  no  ray  of  sense  discloses 
Whose  only  plot  it  is  to  break  our  noses  ; 
Whilst  from  ^low  the  trap-door  demons  rise, 
And  from  above  the  dangling  deities. 

H  97 


98  EPILOGUE. 

And  shall   I  m-x  in  this  unhallow'd  crew? 

May  rosin' d  lightning  blast  me,  if  I  do  ! 

No — I  will  act,  I'll  vindicate  the  stage  : 

Bhakspeare  himself  shall  feel  my  tragic  rage 

Off,  off,  vile  trappings  :  a  new  passion  reigns ! 

The  madd'ning  monarch  revels  in  my  veins. 

Oh  !  for  a  Richard's  voice  to  catch  the  theme  : 

'Give  me  another  horse  !  bind  up  my  wounds  I 
— soft — 'twas  but  a  dream.' 

Aye,  'twas  but  a  dream,  for  now  there's  no  re- 
treating : 

If  I  cejise  Harlequin,  I  cease  from  eating. 

Twas  thus  that  iEsop's  stag,  a  creature  blame- 
less, 

Yet  something  vain,   like  one  that  shall  be 
nameless. 

Once  on  the  margin  of  a  fountain  stood, 

And  cavill'd  at  his  image  in  the  flood. 

*The  deuse  confound,'  he  cries,  '  these  drum- 
stick shanks, 

They  neither  have  my  gratitude  nor  thanks : 

They're  perfectly  disgraceful !  strike  me  dead! 

But  for  a  head, — yes,  yes,  I  have  a  head. 

How  piercing  is   that  eye !    how   sleek    that 
brow ! 

My  horns !   I'm  told,    horns  are   the    fashion 
now.' 

Whilst  thus  he  spoke,  astonish' d  to  his  view, 

If  oar,  and  more  near,  the  hounds  and  huntsman 
drew. 


SOITQ.  99 

Hoicks !  hark  forward !  came  thundering  from 

behind ; 
He  bounds  aloft,  outstrips  the  fleeting  wind : 
He  quits  the  woods,  and  tries  the  beaten  ways ; 
"He  starts,  he  pants,  he  takes  the  circhng  maze. 
At  length  his  silly  head,  so  priz'd  before, 
[s  taught  his  former  folly  to  deplore  ; 
Whilst  his  strong  limbs  cor\spire  to  set  him  free, 
A.nd  at  one  bound  he  saves  himself,  Uke  me. 
[Taking  a  jump  through  the  stage  door 


SONG. 

FROM  THE  ORATOKIO  OF  THE  CAPTIVITY. 

The  wretch  conderaa'd  vvdth  life  to  part. 

Still,  still  on  hope  relies ; 
And  every  pang  that  renda  the  heart, 

Bids  expectation  rise. 

Hope,  Uke  the  glimm'ring  taper's  light 
Adorns  and  cheers  the  way  : 

And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night 
Euiits  a  brighter  ray. 


A  lettf:r. 


I  SEND  you  a  small  production  ol  ihe  late  Dr. 
Goldsmith,  which  has  never  been  pi  blished,  and 
which  might  perhaps  have  been  tota'ly  lost,  had 
I  not  secured  it.  He  intended  it  as  a  song  in 
the  character  of  Miss  Hardcastle,  in  his  admi- 
rable comedy  of  '  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,'  but 
it  was  left  out,  as  Mrs.  Bulkley,  who  played  the 
part,  did  not  sing.  He  sung  it  himself,  in  private 
companies,  very  agreeably.  The  tune  is  a 
pretty  Irish  air,  called  '  The  Humours  of  Bala- 
magairy,'  to  which  he  told  me  he  found  it  very 
difficult  to  adapt  words :  but  he  has  succeeded 
very  happily  in  these  few  hues.  As  I  could 
sing  the  tune,  and  was  fond  of  them,  he  was  so 
good  as  to  give  me  them,  about  a  year  ago,  just 
as  I  was  leaving  London,  and  bidding  him  adieu 
for  that  season,  little  apprehending  that  it  was 
a  last  farewell.  I  preserve  this  little  reUc,  in 
nis  own  hand -writing,  with  an  affectionate  care. 
I  am.  Sir, 
STotr  humble  servant, 

JAMES  BOSWELL. 


100 


SONG, 

IKTBWrEU  TC  HAVE  BEEN   SUrS   IN    tHE    COMBDl 

OF  'she  stoops  to  conquer.' 

Ah  me  !  when  shall  I  marry  me  ? 
Lovers  are  plenty,  but  fail  to  relieve  me. 
He,  fond  youth,  that  could  carry  me, 
Offers  to  love,  but  means  to  deceive  me. 

But  I  will  rally  and  combat  the  miner  : 
Not  a  look ,  not  a  smile ,  shall  my  passion  discover. 
She  that  gives  all  to  the  false  one  pursuing  herj 
Makes  but  a  penitent,  and  loses  a  lover. 


ON  A  BEAUTIFUL  YOUTH 

STRUCK  BLIND  BY  LIGHTNING. 

{Imitated  from  the  Spanish) 

Sure  'twas  by  Providence  designM, 
Rather  in  pity  than  in  hate, 

That  he  should  be,  like  Cupid,  blind. 
To  save  him  from  Narcissus'  fate. 
101 


A  PROLOGUE, 

wairrEN  and  spoken  by  thb 
POET  LABERIUS, 

A  EOMAN  KNIGHT,  WHOM  CiESAR  FCBCEE  UPON 
THE  STAGE 

Preserved  by  3Iacrobtus. 

What  !  no  way  left  to  shun  th'  inglorious  stage 
And  save  from  infamy  my  sinking  age  ! 
Scarce  half-alive,  oppress' d  with  many  a  year, 
What  in  the  name  of  dotage  drives  me  here  ? 
A  time  there  was,  when  glory  was  my  guide. 
Nor  force  nor  fraud  could  turn  my  steps  aside. 
Unaw'd  by  power,  and  unappall'd  by  fear, 
With  honest  thrift,  I  held  my  honour  dear: 
But  this  vile  hour  disperses  all  my  store, 
And  all  my  hoard  of  honour  is  no  more  ; 


♦  This  translaticn  was  first  printed  in  one  of  car 
iuthor's  earliest  works,  'The  Present  State  0/ 
Liarning  in  Europe,'  12mo.  1759 


EPITAPH  ON   PURDON.  lOU 

For  Ah !  too  partial  to  my  life's  decline, 
CcBBar  persuades,  submission  must  be  mine  • 
Him  I  obey,  whom  Heaven  itself  obeys, 
Hopeless  of  pleasing,  yet  incUn'd  to  please. 
Here  then  at  once  I  welcome  every  shame, 
And  cancel  at  threescore  a  life  of  fame  ; 
No  more  my  titles  shall  my  children  tell, 
'  The  old  buffoon'  will  fit  my  name  as  well ; 
This  day  beyond  its  term  my  fate  extends, 
For  life  is  ended  when  our  honour  ends. 


EPITAPH  ON  PURDON. 


Here  lies  poor  Ned  Purdon,  from  misery  freed, 
Who  long  was  a  bookseller's  hack  ; 
He  led  such  a  damnable  life  in  this  world, 
J  don't  think  he'll  wish  to  come  back. 


♦  liAs  gentleman  was  educated  at  Trinity  College, 
Dublin  ;  but,  having  wasted  his  patrimony,  he  enlist- 
ed as  a  foot-soldier.  Growing  tired  of  that  employ- 
ment, he  obtained  his  discharge,  and  became  a  scrib- 
bler in  the  newspapers.  He  tranalated  Voltaire't 
Henriade 


EPILOGUE 

TO 

THE  COMEDY  OF  THE  SISTERS. 

What!   five   long  acts — and  all  to  make   01 
wiser  ! 

OxiT  authoress  sure  has  wanted  an  adviser. 

Had  she  consulted  me,  she  should  have  made 

Her  moral  play  a  speaking  masquerade  ; 

VVarm'd  up  each  bustling  scene,  and  in  her  rage 

Have  emptied  all  the  green-room  on  the  stage. 

My  life  onV  this  had  kept  her  play  from  sink- 
ing ; 

Have  pleas'd  our  eyes,  and  sav'd  the  pain  of 
thinking. 

Well,  since  she  thus  has  shown  her  want  of  skill, 

What  if  I  give  a  masquerade  ? — I  will. 

But  how  ?  aye,  there's  the  rub!    [pausing]  — 
I've  got  my  cue  : 

The  world's  a  masquerade ;  the  masquers,  you, 
you,  you. 

[To  Boxes,  Fit,  and  Gallery 
104 


EPIL0&T7E.  105 

Liud !  what  a  group  the  motley  scene  discloses, 
False  wit,  false  wives,  false  virgins,  and  false 

spouses ! 
Statesmen  with  bridles  on  ;  and  close  beside  'em^ 
Patriots  in  party-colour' d  suits  that  ride  'em. 
There  Hebes,  turn'd  of  fifty,  try  once  more 
To  raise  a  flame  in  Cupids  of  threescore. 
These  in  their  turn,  with  appetites  as  keen, 
Deserting  fifty,  fasten  on  fifteen. 
Miss,  not  yet  full  fifteen,  with  fire  uncommon, 
Flings  down  her  sampler,  and  takes  up  the  wo 

man ; 
The  httle  ur-liin  smiles,  and  spreads  her  lure, 
And  tries  to  kill,  ere  she's  got  power  to  cure, 
Thus  'tis  with  all — their    chief  and    constant 

care 
Is,  to  seem  every  thing  but  what  they  are. 
Yon  broad,  'nold,  angry  spark,  I  fix  my  eye  on, 
Who  seems  t'  have  robb'd  his  vizor  from  the 

lion  ; 
Who  frowns,  and  talks  and  swears,  with  round 

parade, 
Looking,  as  who  should  say,   Dara'me  who's 

afraid  ?  [Mimicking. 

Strip  but  this  vizor  off,  and  sure  I  am 
You'll  find  his  lionship  a  very  lamb. 
Yon  pohtician  famous  in  debate. 
Perhaps,  to  vulgar  eyes,  bestrides  the  state, 
Yet,  when  he  deigns  his  real  shape  t'  assume 
He  turns  old  woman,  and  bestrides  a  broom. 


JOS  A  SONNET. 

Yon  patriot  too,  who  presses  on  your  sight, 

And  seems  to  every  gazer,  all  in  white, 

If  with  a  bnbe  his  candour  you  attack, 

He  bows,  turns  round,  and,  whip — the  man's  ii 

black ! 
Yon  critic  too — but  whither  do  I  run  ? 
If  I  proceed,  our  bard  will  he  undone. 
Well,  then,  a  truce,  since  she  requests  it  too: 
Do  you  spare  her,  and  I'll  for  once  spare  you 


A  SONNET. 

Weeping,  murmuring,  complaining, 
Lost  to  every  gay  delight ; 

Mira,  too  sincere  for  feigning. 

Fears  th'  approaching  bridal  night. 

Yet  why  impair  thy  bright  perfection, 
Or  dim  thy  beauty  with  a  tear  ? 

Had  Mira  follow' d  my  direction, 
She  long  had  wanted  cause  of  few. 


AN  ELEGY 

OH  THE  GI/ORY  CF  HER  SEX— MRS    MARY  BLAIIt 

Good  people  all,  with  one  accord, 

Lament  for  Madam  Blaize, 
Who  never  wanted  a  good  word — 

From  those  who  spoke  her  praise. 

The  needy  seldom  pass'd  her  door, 

And  always  found  her  kind  ; 
She  freely  lont  to  all  the  poor — 

Who  left  a  pledge  behind. 

She  strove  the  neighbourhood  to  please, 
With  manners  wondrous  winning  ; 

And  never  follow' d  wicked  ways, 
Unless  when  she  was  sinning. 

At  church,  in  silks  and  satins  new, 

With  hoop  of  monstrous  size  ; 
She  never  slumber' d  in  her  pew— 

But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Her  love  was  sought,  I  do  aver, 

By  twenty  beaux  and  more  ; 
The  king  himself  has  follow'd  her— 

When  she  has  walk'd  before. 

107 


108 


But  now  her  wealth  and  finery  fled. 

Her  hangers-on  cut  short  all : 
The  doctors  found  when  she  was  dead-" 

Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

Let  us  lament,  in  sorrow  sore, 
For  Kent-street  well  may  say, 

That  Irnd  she  liv'd  a  twelve-month  more— 
She  had  not  died  to-day. 


EPITAPH  ON  DR.  PARNELL. 

This  tomb  inscribed  to  gentle  Parnell's  nam« 
May  speak  our  gratitude,  but  not  his  fame. 
What  heart  but  feels  his  sweetly-moral  lay, 
Fhat  leads  to  truth  through  pleasure's  flowery 

way  ! 
Celestial  themes  confess' d  his  tuneful  aid  ; 
And  Heaven,  that  lent  him  genius,  was  repaid 
Needless  to  him,  the  tribute  we  bestow, 
The  transitory  breath  of  fame  below: 
More  lasting  rapture  from  his  works  shall  rise 
While  converts  thank  their  poet  in  the  skie*. 


THB 

BOOK 
PLEASURES 


L  THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPS, 

BT  THOMAS  CXJtnKIJ^ 

1.  THE  PLEASURES  OF  MEMORT. 

BT  SABfUEL  BOGERS. 

ft  THB  PLEASURES  OF  IMAGINATIOirs 

BT  MABK  AKENSIDE. 


WORLD  PUBLISHING  HOUSE, 
139   EIGHTH   STREET, 
NEW  YORK. 
1875. 


CONTENTS 


PLEASURES  OF  IIOPR,  FAhf  I Paga    9 

...      PART  II     43 

PLEASURES  OF   '.TF,:^IbRY.  PARI   I       .      .  .    69 

.     .     .  PART  II  .  .        97 

PLEASDRHS   OF  IMAGINATION,  BOOK  I.  .  .  123 

BOOK  n 143 

......  .     .       BOOK  III 181 


€5AMPflELL'S 
PLEASURES   OF    HOPI 


ANALYSIS  OF  PART  I. 


The  poem  opens  with  a  comparison  between  tiM 
biauty  of  remote  objects  in  a  laniiscape,  and  those 
ideal  scenes  of  felicity  which  the  imagination  delights 
to  contemplate— the  influence  of  anticipation  upon 
the  other  passions  is  next  delineated — an  illusion  is 
made  to  the  well-known  fiction  in  pagan  tradition 
that,  when  all  the  guardian  deities  of  mankind  aban- 
doned the  world,  Hope  alone  was  left  behind — the 
consolations  of  this  passion  in  situationsof  danger  and 
distress — the  seaman  on  his  midnight  watch — the 
Boldier  marching  into  battle— allusion  to  the  interest- 
ing adventures  of  Byron. 

The  inspiration  of  Hope,  as  it  actuates  the  efforts 
of  genius,  whether  in  the  department  of  science  or  of 
taste — domestic  felicity,  how  intimately  connecte<* 
with  views  of  future  happiness — picture  of  a  mother 
watching  her. infant  when  asleep — pictures  of  the 
prisoner,  the  maniac,  and  the  wanderer. 

From  the  consolations  of  individual  misery,  a  tran- 
sition is  made  to  prospects  of  political  improvement 
in  the  future  state  of  society— the  wide  field  that  is 
yet  open  for  the  progress  of  humanizing  arts  among 
uncivilised  nations— from  these  views  of  ameliora- 
tion of  society,  and  the  extension  of  liberty  and  truth 
wet  despotic  and  barbarous  countries,  by  melan- 

7 


6  &5?;l«,i'lJL5. 

choly  fconlra?t  of  ideas  we  are  led  to  refJoct  uponttK 
hard  fate  of  a  brave  people,  recently  conspicaoua  in 
their  struggles  for  indepenience— description  of  the 
capture  of  Warsaw,  of  the  last  contest  of  the  oppres- 
sors and  tlie  oppressed,  and  the  massacre  of  the  Pol- 
ish patriots  at  the  bridge  of  Prague— apostrophe  to 
the  self-interested  enemies  of  human  improvement  — 
the  wrongs  of  Africa — the  barbarous  policy  of  Eu- 
ropeans in  India — propnecy  in  the  Hindoo  mythology 
of  the  expected  descent  of  the  Deity,  to  redress  tha 
miseries  f  their  race,  and  to  take  vengeance  on  ttM 
tfiolator»  ^f  justice  and  laeref . 


¥1S1 


PLEASURES   OF  HOPE. 


PART  I. 

At  summer  eve,  when  Heaven's  aerial  bow 
Spans  with  bright  arch  the  gUttering  hills  below, 
Why  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  musing  eye, 
Whose  sun-bright  summit  mingles  with  the  sky  f 
Why  do  those  cliffs  of  shadowy  tint  appear 
More  sweet  than  all  the  landscape  smiling  near  f 
'Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 
And  robes  Axe  mountain  ia  its  azure  hue. 

Thus,  with  delight,  we  linger  to  survey 
The  promised  joys  of  life's  unmeasured  way; 
Thus,  from  afar,  each  dim-discover' d  scene 
More  pleasing  seems  than  all  the  past  hath  been; 
And  every  form,  that  fancy  can  repair 
From  dark  oblivion,  glows  divinely  there. 

What  potent  spirit  guides  the  raptured  eyo 
To  oierce  the  shades  of  dim  futurity? 

9 


lU  CAMPBEU    S 

Can  Wisdom  k.id,  with  all  her  heavenly  power, 
The  pledge  of  Joy's  anticipated  hour  ? 
Ah,  no  !  she  daritiy  sees  the  fate  of  man — 
H(  1  dim  horizon  bounded  to  a  span  ; 
Or,  ii  she  hold  an  image  to  tiie  view, 
'Tis  Nature  pictured  too  severely  true. 

With  ihee,  swe-jt  Hope  I  resides  the  heavenl| 
hght 
That  pours  rernotest  rapture  on  the  sight : 
Thine  is  the  charm  of  life's  bewilder'd  way, 
That  calls  each  slumbering  passion  into  play  : 
Waked  by  thy  touch,  1  see  tiie  sister  band, 
On  tiptoe  watching,  start  at  thy  command, 
And  fly  where'er  thy  mandate  bids  them  steei 
To  Pleaisiire's  path,  or  Glory's  bright  career. 

Primeval  Hope,  the  Aonian  Muses  say, 
W' hen  Man  and  Nature  mourn'd  their  first  decay, 
When  every  form  of  death,  and  every  woe. 
Shot  from  malignant  stars  to  earth  below ; 
When  Murder  bared  his  arm,  and  rampant  War 
Yoked  the  red  dragons  of  her  iron  car ; 
When  Peace  and  .Alercy,  banish'd  from  the  plain, 
Sprung  on  the  viewless  winds  to  Heaven  again  i 
All,  all  forsook  the  friendless  guilty  mmd, 
But  Hope,  the  charmer,  linger'd  still  behind. 

Thus,  while  Elijah's  burning  wheels  prepare 
From  Carmel's  height  to  sweep  the  fields  of  »ir 


PLEASURES     .)F    HOIE.  a1 

The  Propnet's  mantle,  ere  liis  Plight  began, 
Dropp'd  on  the  world — a  sacred  gift  to  man. 

Auspicious  Hope  !  in  thy  sweet  garden  grove 
Wreaths  for  each  toil,  a  charm  for  every  woe  : 
Won  by  their  sweets,  in  Nature's  languid  hour 
The  way- worn  pilgrim  seeks  thy  summer  bower; 
There,  as  the  wild-bee  murnmrs  on  the  wing, 
What  peaceful  dreams  thy  handmaid  spirits  briiig' 
What  viewless  forms  th'  .-Eolian  organ  play, 
And  sweep  the  furrow'd  lines  of  anxious  thought 
away. 

Angel  of  life  !  thy  glittering  wings  explore 
Earth's  loneliest  bounds,   and  ocean's  wildest 

shore. 
Lo !  to  the  wint'ry  wind  the  pilot  yields 
His  bark  careering  o'er  unfathom'd  fields ; 
Now  on  Atlantic  waves  he  rides  afar, 
Where  Andes,  giant  of  the  western  star, 
With  meteor  standard  to  the  winds  unfurl' d 
Looks  from  his  throne  of  clouds  o'er  half  tht 

world. 

Now  far  he  sweeps,  where  scarce  a  summe* 
smiles, 
On  Behring's  rocks,  or  Greenland's  naked isle«j 
Cold  on  his  midnight  watch  the  breezes  blow, 
From  wastes  that  slumber  in  eternal  snow  ; 
And  wait  across  the  waves'  tumultuous  roar, 
The  wolfs  long  howl  from  Oonalaska  s  shore. 


•2  campbev.l's 

Poor  child  of  danger,  nursling  of  the  storm, 
Sad  are  the  wops  that  wreck  thy  manly  form ! 
Rocks,  waves,  and   wind,   the  shatter'd    bark 

delay  ; 
Thy  heart  is  sad,  thy  home  is  far  away. 

But  Hope  can  here  her  moonlight  vigils  keep, 
A.nd  sing  to  charm  the  spirit  of  the  deep. 
Swift  as  your  streamer  Ughts  the  starry  pole, 
Her  \nsion3  warm  the  watchman's  pensive  soul: 
His  native  hills  thai  rise  in  happier  chmes, 
The  grot  that  heard  his  song  of  other  times. 
His  cottage-home,  his  bark  of  slender  sail, 
His  glassy  lake,  and  broomwood-blossom'd  vale, 
Rush  on  his  thought ;  he  s  .veeps  before  the  wind, 
Treads  the  loved  shore  he  sigh'd  to  leave  behind, 
Meets  at  each  step  a  friend's  familiar  face, 
And  flies  at  last  to  Helen's  long  embrace: 
Wipes  from  her  cheek  the  rapture-speaking  tear! 
And  clasps,  with  many  a  sigh,  his  children  dear 
While,  long  neglected,  but  at  length  caress'd. 
His  faithful  dog  salutes  the  smihng  guest, 
Points  to  his  master's  eyes  (where'er  they  roam; 
His  wistful  face,  and  whines  a  welcome  home. 

Fnend  of  the  brave !  in  peril's  darkest  hour, 
Intrepid  Virtue  looks  to  thee  for  power  ; 
To  thee  the  heart  its  trembling  homage  yields, 
C  a  stormy  floods,  and  carnage-cover'd  fields. 


PLEASURES   OF   HOPE.  13 

W^henfronl  to  front  the  banner' d  hosts  coi.ibin*, 
Halt  ere  they  close,  and  form  the  dreadful  line  • 
When  all  is  ^t'ul  on  Death's  devoted  soil, 
The  march-worn  soldier  mingles  for  the  toil; 
As  rings  his  yliitering  tube,  he  lifts  on  high 
The  dauntless  brow,  and  spirit-speaking  eye, 
Hails  in  his  hcnrt  the  triumph  yet  to  come, 
And  hcarc^  tiiy  siorniy  music  in  the  drum. 

And  such  thy  strength-inspiring  aid  that  bore 
The  hardy  Byron  to  his  native  shore. —  (a) 
In  horrid  clime?,  where  Chiloe's  fempests  sweej: 
Tumultuous  murmurs  o'er  the  trouMed  deep 
'Twas  his  to  mourn  mislortune's  rudest  shock. 
Scourged  by  the  wind,  and  cradled  on  the  rock, 
To  wake  each  joyle.-s  morn,  and  search  again 
The  famish'd  luumts  of  solitary  men, 
W!i;}::c  ra-e,  unyielding  as  their  na-ive  storm, 
Knows  not  a  trace  df  Nature  but  the  form ; 
Yet,  at  thy  call,  the  hardy  tar  pur-sued, 
Pale  but  intrepid,  sad  but  unsubdued, 
Pierced  the  deep  woods,  and,  hailing  from  afar 
The  moon's  pile  planet  and  the  northern  star; 
Paused  at  eacli  dreary  cry.  unheard  before. 
Hyenas  in  the  svijd,  and  mermaids  on  (he  shore 
Till,  led  '.-y  th"o  o'er  niai-sy  aclifTsu'dime. 
He  found  a  warmer  world,  a  milder  clime. 
A  home  to  rest,  a  shelter  to  defend. 
Peace  and  repose,  a  Briion  and  a  friend !  v61 


14  Campbell's 

Congenial  Hope  !  thy  passion-kindling  p. jwer, 
How  bright,  how  strong,  in  youth's  untroubled 

hour 
On  yon  proud  height,  with  Genius  hand  in  hand, 
I  see  thee  light,  and  wave  thy  golden  wand. 

"  Go,   Child  of  heaven     (thy  winged  worda 
proclaim) 
Tis  thine  to  search  the  ooundless  fields  of  fame  ! 
Lo  !  Newton,  priest  of  Nature,  shines  afar, 
Scans  the  wide  world,  and  number?  every  star  ! 
Wilt  thou,  with  him,  mysterious  riies  apply. 
And  watch  the  shrine  with  wonder-beaming  eye? 
Vo-i-,  thou  shah  mark,  with  magic  art  profound. 
The  speed  of  Hght,  <he  circling  march  of  sound 
With  Franklin,  grasp  the  lighrning's  fiery  wing, 
Or  yield  the  lyre  of  Heaven  another  string,  (c) 

"The     Swedish    sage    admnes,   in    }  ondei 

bowers,  {d) 
His  vdnged  iree^ts,  and  his  rosy  flowers  ; 
Calls  from  their  woodland  haunts  the  savage  train 
With  sounding  horn  and  counts  them  on  the  plain. 
So  once,  at  Heaven's  command,  the  wanderers 

came 
To  Eden's  shade,  and  heard  their  various  name 

"  Far  from  the   world,  in  your  sequester'd 
clime, 
b'low  piFs  the  s't):S  of  V'isdom.  in.;re  sublime 


PLEASURES    0?    !TOPE.  15 

Calm  as  the  fields  of  Henven  his  sn^  ieiit  eye 
The  loved  Athenian  hfts  to  realms  o.i  high; 
Admiring  Plato,  on  his  spotless  page, 
Stamps  the  bright  di-tates  oi"  the  father  sage  ; 
'  Shall  Xalnre  bound  to  earth's  diurnal  span 
The  fire  of  God,  th'  immortal  soul  of  man  V 

"  Turn.  Child  of  Heaven,  thy  rapture-light 

en'd  eye 
To  Wisdom's  walk, — the  sacred  Nine  are  nigh : 
Hark  !  irom  l>right  spires  that  gild  the  Delphian 

height. 
From  streams  that  wander  in  eternal  fight, 
Ranged  on    their    hill,   Harrnonia's  daughters 

swell 
The  mingling  tones  of  horn,  and  harp,  and  shell ; 
Deep    fi-om   his    vaults  the    Loxian    murmura 

flow,  (e) 
An^  Pythia's  awful  organ  peals  below. 

"  Beloved  of  Heaven  !  the  smiling  Muse  shall 

shed 
Her  moonliglit  halo  on  thy  beauteous  head  : 
Shall  swell  thy  heart  to  raptnre  unconfined, 
And  breathe  a  holy  madness  o'er  thy  mind. 
I  see  thee  roam  her  guardian  power  beneath. 
And  talk  with  spirits  on  tlie  midnight  heath  ; 
l:]n  luire  of  guilty  wanderers  whence  they  came, 
.\nd  ask  each    b'ood  sfain'd  form  his  earthly 

name 


J  6  Campbell's 

Then  weave  in  rapid  verse  the  .- eeds  they  .ell, 
Aivl  read  the  Jrenibiinjr  world  the  tales  of  hell, 

"  When  ^'enus,  throned  in  clouds  of  rosy  hue, 
Flings  from  her  golden  urn  the  vesper  dew, 
And  bids  fo:id  man  her  glimmering  noon  employ 
Sacred  to  love  and  walks  of  tender  joy  ; 
A  milder  mood  the  goddess  shall  recall. 
And  soft  as  dew  thy  tones  oi  music  fall ; 
While  Beauty's  deeply-pictured  smiles  impart 
A  pang  more  dear  than  pleasure  to  the  heart— - 
Warm  as  thy  sighs  shall  flow  the  Lesbian  strain, 
And  plead  in  Beauty's  ear,  nor  plead  in  vain. 

*•  Or  wik  thou  Orphean  hymns  more  sacred 
deem 
And  steep  thy  song  in  r\Iercy's  mellow  stream  ; 
To  pensive  drops  the  radiant  eye. beguile — 
For  Beauty's  tears  are  lovelier  than  her  smile ; 
On  Nature's  throbr.ing  anguish  pour  relief, 
And  teach  impassion' d  souis  ;he  joy  of  grief  ? 

"  Yes  ;  to  thy  tongue  shall  seraph  words  be 
given,     - 
And  power  on  earth  to  plead  the  cause  o^heaven: 
The  proud,  the  cold  untroubled  heart  of  stone, 
That  never  muse  1  on  sorrov,-  but  its  own, 
Unlocks  a  cenerous  store  at  thy  command, 
Like    Hore})'f    'ocka    beneath    the    prophet'a 
hand.  ,/• 


P^EASUPvf.S   OF    HOPr  17 

The  li%'ing  lumber  of  his  kindred  eaith, 
Charni'd  into  soul,  receives  ii  second  birth  ; 
Feels  tiiy  dread  power  another  heart  afford, 
Whose    passion-tonch'd     harmor.ious    string* 

accord 
True  as  the  circling  spheres  to  Nature's  plan  : 
And  man,  the  brother,  lives  the  friend  of  man! 

"  Bright  as  the  pillar  rose  at  Heaven's  com 
niand, 
When  Israel  march'd  along  'he  desert  land. 
Blazed  through  the  iiigln  on  lonely  wilds  afar, 
And  told  the  path — a  never-setiing  star  : 
So,  heavenly  Genius,  in  thy  course  divine, 
Hope  iii  thy  star,  her  light  is  ever  thine." 

Propitious  Power  !  when  rankling  cares  annoy 
The  sacred  home  of  Hymenean  joy  ; 
When  doom'd  to  Poverty's  sequester'd  aell, 
The  wedded  pair  of  love  and  virtue  dwell, 
Unpitied  by  the  world,  unknown  to  fame. 
Their  woes,  their  wishes,  and  their  hearts  the 

same — 
Oh  there,  prophetic  hope  !  thy  sr  lile  bestow, 
And  chase  the  pang  that  worth  should  never 

know — 
There,  as  the  parent  deals  his  scanty  store 
To  friendless  babes,  and  weeps  to  give  no  more, 
Tell,  that  his  manly  race  shall  yet  assuage 
Thtir  father's  wrongs;  and  shield  his  later  ago. 


}3  CSX-^-R-EI.'Js 

What  though  for  liiiu  no  Hybl.i's  s^vecis  distil, 
Nor  t)loomy  vines  wave  purple  on  the  hill  ; 
Tell,  that  wheii  silent  years  have  pass'd  away, 
That  when  his  eyes  grow  dun,  his  trepses  gray 
These  i-usy  iiands  a  ioveher  cot  shall  build, 
A.ud  deck  with  iairer  flowers  his  little  field, 
\nd  call  from  Heaven  propitious  dews  to  breallie 
\rcadian  beauly  on  tlie  barren  heath; 
leli,    that    while     Loves    spontaneous    sniile 

endears 
The  dajs  ot  peace,  the  sabbath  of  his  years. 
Health  -hall  prolong  io  many  a  festive  hour 
The  social  pleasures  of  his  humble  bower. 


Lo  !  at  the  couch  where  infant  beauty  sleeps, 
Her  silent  watch  the  niourntul  mother  keeps  ; 
She.  while  the  lovely  babe  unconscious  hes, 
Smiles  on  her  slunib'ring  child  with  pensive  eyes, 
And  weaves  a  song  of  melancholy  jo_\ — 
"  Sleep,  in»age  of  thy  father,  sleep,  my  boy: 
No  lingering  hour  of  sorrow  shall  be  thine  ; 
No  sight  that  rends  thy  father's  heart  and  mine; 
Bright  as  his  manly  sire,  the  son  shall  be 
In  term  and  soul ;  but,  ah!  more  blest  than  he* 
Thy  tame,  thy  worth,  thy  filial  love,  at  last, 
Shall  soa:he  this  aching  heart  lor  all  the  past — 
VVitIi  many  a  smile  my  solitude  repay, 
A.U  I  chase  the  world's  ungenerous  scorn  away- 


PLE  .SUUES    OF    nOPE.  19 

'  An]  say,  when  sunimon'd  from  the  world 

and  tiiee, 
I  lay  my  head  beneath  the  willow  tree, 
Wilt  thou,  sweet  mourner!  at  my  stone  appear, 
And  soothe  my  parted  spirit  lingering  near  ? 
Oh,  wilt  thou  come,  at  eveniiig  liour,  to  shed 
The  tears  oi  Memory' o'er  my  narrow  bed  ; 
With  ach  ng  temples  Oii  ihy  hand  recHned, 
Muse  on  the  last  farewell  I  leave  behind, 
Breathe  a  deep  iiigh  to  winds  that  murmur  low, 
And  think  ou  all  my  love,  and  all  ney  woe?'* 

So  speaks  affeciion,  ere  the  iirfant  eye 
Can  look  regard,  or  brighten  in  reply  ; 
But    when  the  cherub  lip  hath  learnt  to  claim 
A  mother's  ear  by  that  endearing  name; 
■^oon  as  the  pla-'ful  innocent  can  prove 
A  tear  of  pity,  or  a  smile  of  love, 
•Or  cons  his  murmuring  task  l<eneath  her  care, 
Or  lisps  with  holy  look  his  evfning  prayer, 
Or  gazing,  mutely  pensive,  sits,  to  hear 
The  mournful  ballad  warbled  in  his  ear; 
How  fondly  looks  admiring  Hope  the  while 
At  every  artlc^is  tear,  and  every  smile  ! 
How  glows  the  j(;yous  parent  to  descry 
A  guileless  bosom,  true  .o  sympathy  ' 

Where   is  the    roubh^l  heart,   consign' d  to 
share 
Tumultu  )us  toils,  or  Svditary  care. 


•20  CAMP3i:LL'S 

Unhles   by  visionary  thoughts  that  stray 
I'o  co'.mt  tlie  joys  ol  rortuiie's  letter  day  i 
Lo,  nature,  Ufe,  and  Hberiv  relume 
The  dim-eyed  tenant  of  iiie  duiigeon  gloonfi, 
A  long-lost  friend,  or  hapless  child  restored, 
Smiles  at  his  Ma/.i-'g  hear:;;  and  social  board, 
Warm  Irom  his  heart  the  tears  of  rapture  flow, 
And  virtue  triumphs  o'er  remember'd  woe. 

Chide   not   his   peace,    proud    Reason !  nor 
destroy 
The  shadowy  forms  of  uncreated  joy, 
That  urge  the  lingering  tide  of  life,  and  pour 
Spontaneous  slumber  on  his  midnight  hour. 

Hark  !  the  wild  maniac  sings,  to  chide  the  gal« 
That  wafts  so  slow  her  lover's  distant  sail  ; 
She,  sad  spectatress,  on  the  wintry  shore 
Watch'd  the  rude  surge  his  shroudless  cors* 

that  bore. 
Knew  the  pale  form    and,  shrieking  in  amaze, 
Clasp' d  her  cold  haiiJs,  and  fix'd  her  maddening 

gaze: 
Poor  vvidow'd  wretch '   'tv.as  there  she  wept  in 

vain, 
Till  memory  fled  her  agonizing  brain : — 
But  Mercy  gave,  to  charm  the  sense  of  woe, 
Ideal  peace,  ibit  truth  could  ne'er  bestow  ; 
Warm  on  her  heart  the  joys  of  Fancy  beam, 
And  aimless  Hope  delights  her  darkest  dream. 


Oft  when  yon  '.noon  hath  fli'.'Tl.'d  liie  midnight 
skv; 
And  the  lone  sea-bird  wakes  its  wildest  cry, 
Piled  on  the  steep,  her  blazing  fa^rois  burn 
To  hail  the  bark  that  never  can  return  ; 
And  still  she  waits,  but  scarce  forbears  to  weep, 
That  constant  love  can  linger  on  the  deep. 


And,   mark  the   wretch,  whose  wanderings 

never  knew 
The  world's  regard,  that  soothes,  though  hal 

untrue, 
Whose  erring  heart  the  lash  of  sorrow  bore, 
But  found  not  pity  when  it  err'd  no  more. 
Yon  friendless  man,  at  whose  dejected  eye 
Th'  unfeeling  proud  one  looks — and  passes  by  ! 
Condemn'd  on  Penury's  barren  path  to  roam, 
Scorn'd  by  the  world,  and  left  without  a  home 
E'en  he,  at  evening,  should  he  chance  to  stray, 
Down  l)y  the  hamlet's  hawthorn-scented  way, 
Where,  round  the  cot's  romantic  ghide,  are  seen 
The  blossom' d  bean-field,  and  ihe  sloping  green. 
Leans  o'er  its  humble  gate,  and  t-iinks  the  whye: 
Oh  !  that  for  me  some  home  like  this  would  smile, 
Some  hainlet  shade,  to  sliield  my  sickly  form. 
Health  in  the  breeze,  and  shelter  in  the  storm ». 
There  should  my  hand  no  stinted  boon  assign 
To  wretched  hearts  with  sorrow  such  as  mine 


t2  CAMri5ELi.S 

That  generous  wisli  can  soothe  u' (pitied  care, 
And  Hope  haV  mingles   wiih   the   poor  man  S 
prayer. 

Hope  I    when    I  mourn,  with    sympathizing 
mind. 
The  wrong  of  f^\te.  the  woes  of  human  kind. 
Thy  bhssful  omens  rid  my  spirit  see 
The  boundless  iields  of  rapture  yet  to  be, 
I  watch  the  wheels  of  Nature's  mazy  plan, 
And  learn  the  future  by  the  past  of  man. 

Come,   bright   Improvement  I  on  the  car  of 
Time, 
And  rule  the  spacious  world  from  clime  to  clime; 
Thy  handmaid  arts  shall  every  wild  explore. 
Trace  everj  wave,  and  culture  '.n'ery  shore. 
On  Erie's  lanlcs,  where  tigers  steal  along, 
And  the  dread  Indian  chants  a  dismal  song, 
VVhere  human  fiends  on  midnight  errands  walk, 
And  bathe  in  brains  ihe  murderous  tomahawk  ; 
There  shall  the  flocks  on  thymy  pasture  stray, 
And  shepherds  dasice  at  Summer's  opening  day. 
E^ch  wandering  genius  of  the  lonely  glen 
Shall  start  to  view  the  glittering  haunts  of  men  ,• 
And  silent  watch,  on  woodland  heights  around, 
The  village  curfew,  as  it  tolls  profound. 

In  Libyan  groves,  where  damned  rites  are  done 
That  bathe  the  rocks  in  blood  and  veil  the  sun 


PLEASURES    OF    HOPE.  22 

Trith  shall  anest  the  nuirdeious  anvi  profane, 
Wild  Obi  flies  (t) — the  \e\l  is  rent  in  twain. 

Where  barb'rous  hordes  on  Scythian  moun- 
tains roam, 
Truth,  Mercy,  Freedom,  yet  shall  find  a  home; 
Where'er  degraded  Nature  bleeds  and  pines, 
From  Guinea's  coast  to  Sibir's  dreary  mines,  (g) 
Truth  shall  pervade  th'   unfathom'd  darknesi 

there, 
And  light  the  dreadful  features  of  despair. — 
Hark !  the  stern  captive  spurns  his  heavy  load. 
And  asks  the  image  back  that  Heaven  bestow'd: 
Fierce  in  his  eyes  the  tire  of  valour  burns, 
And,  as  the  slave  departs,  the  man  returns. 

Oh !  sacred  Truth  !  thy  tiiumph  ceased  awhile, 
And  Flope,  thy  sister,  ceased  with  thee  to  smile, 
When  leagued   Oppression  pour'd  to  northern 

wars 
Her  whisker'd  panders  and  her  fierce  hussars, 
Waved  her  dread  standard  to  the  breeze  of  morn, 
Peal'd  her  ioud  drum,  and  twang'd  her  trumpet 

horn  ; 
Tumultuous  horror  brooded  o'er  iier  van. 
Presaging  wrath  to  Poland — and  to  man  '.  (h) 

Warsaw's   laat   champion   from   her   heighj 
survey'd, 
Wid.e  o'er  the  fip.}d«,  a  waste  of  ruin  iaid.   - 


24  CAMPJEL]/i 

Oh!  Heaven!  he  cried,    my  olecairisj  country 

save  : 
Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  s.i.eld  the  brave? 
Yet,    though  destraetioa    sweep   these   lovely 

plains 
Rise,  fellow-men  !  our  country  yet  remains  ! 
By  that  dread  name,  to  wave  the  sword  on  high, 
And  swear  for  her  to  live  ! — with  her  to  die  I 

He  said,  and  on  the  rampart-heigh-s  orray'd 
His  trusty  warriors,  few,  but  undismay'd  ! 
Firm-paced  and  slow,  a  horrid  iront  they  form, 
Still  as  the  breeze,  but  dreaJful  as  the  storm; 
Low,  murmuring  sounds  along  their  banners  fly, 
Revenge,  or  death, — the  waiehsvord  and  reply 
Then  peal'd  the  notes  omnipotent  to  cliarm, 
And  the  loud  tocsin  toU'd  their  last  alarm  ! — 

In  vain,  alas  !  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few  ! 
From  rank  to  rank  your  volley' d  thunder  flew 
Oh  I  bloodiest  picture  in  the  book  of  I'ime, 
Sarmatia  fell,  unwept,  wi'.hout  a  crime  ; 
Found  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pitying  foe, 
Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe ! 
Dropt  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shatter' 

spear. 
Closed  her  bright  eye,  and  curb'd  her  hiofh  ca- 

reer  ! 
Hope,  for  a  season,  bade  the  world  farewell, 
A.nd  Freedom  shriek'd as  Kosciusko  fell 


PLiASUREi   OF    HOPE  25 

The  sun  went,  down,  nor  ceased  the  carnage 
there, 
Tumultuous  murder  shook  the  midnight  air — 
On  Prague's  proud  arch  the  fires  of  ruin  glow, 
His  blood-dyed  waters  murmuring  far  below ; 
The  storm  prevails,  the  ramparts  yield  a  way, 
Biirsis  the  wild  cry  of  horror  and  dismay  ; 
Hark  !  as  the  smouldering  piles  wi  h  thunder  fall, 
A  thousand  shrieks  ibr  hopeless  mercy  call ! 
Earth  shook — red  meteors  flash'd  along  the  sky, 
And  conscious  Nature  shudder' d  at  the  cry  ! 

Oh  !  Righteous  Heaven  I  ere  Freedom  fou-^d 

a  grave, 
Why  slept  thy  sword,  omnipotent  to  save  ? 
Where  was  thine  arm,   O   Vengeance  !  where 

thy  rod. 
That  smote  the  i^Des  of  Zion  and  of  God, 
That  crush'd  proud  Amnion,  when  his  iron  car 
Was  yoked  in  wrath,  and  thunder'd  from  afar  ? 
Where  was  the  storm  tliat  slumber'd  till  the  host 
Of  blood-stain' d  Pharaoh  left  their  trembling 

coast  ? 
Then  bade  the  deep  in  wild  commotion  flow, 
And  heaved  an  ocean  on  thtiir  march  below  ? 

Departed  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead  ! 
Ye  that  at  Marathon  and  Leuctra  bled ! 
Friends  of  the  world!  restore  your  swords  to  man. 
Fight  ii  his  sacred  cause,  and  lead  the  van! 


?/»  Campbell's 

Vet  for  Sarmatia's  tears  of  blood  at'jue, 
And  make  her  arm  puissant  as  your  own ! 
Oh  !  once  again  to  freedom's  cause  return 
The  patriot  Tell — the  Brucf  oi  Bannockhurn  ' 

Yes  !   thy  proud  lords,  unpitying  band  !  shall 
see 
That  man  hath  yet  a  soul — and  dare  be  free ; 
A  little  while,   along  thy  saddening  plains, 
The  g-tarless  night  of  desolation  reigns  ; 
Truth  shall  restore  the  hght  by  Nature  given, 
And.  like  Prometheus,  bring  the  fire  of  Heaven  . 
Prone  to  the  dust  Oppression  shall  be  hurl'd, 
Her  name,  her  nature,  wither' d  from  the  world' 

Ye  that  the  rising  moon  invidious  mark, 
And  hate  the    li^ht — because  vour  deeds  are 

dark  ; 
Ye  that  expanding  truth  invidious  view. 
And  think,  or  wish  the  song  of  Hope  untrue  ! 
Perhaps  your  little  hands  presume  to  span  ; 
The  march  of  Gertius,  and  the  powers  of  man  ; 
Perhaps  ye  watch,  at  Pride's  unhallow'dshnne 
Her  victims,  newly  slain,  and  thus  divine  : — 
*'  Here  shall   thy  triumph.   Genius,  cease  ;  aod 

here. 
Truth,  Science,  Virtue,  close  your  short  career." 

Tyrants  !  in  vain  ye  trace  the  wizard  ring ! 
In  vain  ye  hmit  Mind's  unwearied  spr.ng: 


PLEASURES    JF    HCPE.  '^  I 

What !  can  ye  lull  the  winged  winds  asleep, 
Arr<st  the  rolling  world,  or  chain  the  di^ep  ? 
No: — the  wild  wave  contemns  your  sceptred 

hand  ; 
It  roU'd  not  back  when  Canute  gave  command ' 

?>'Ian  !  ca!i  thy  doom  no  brighter  soul  allow  ? 
Still  rnus'  thou  live  a  Ijlot  on  Nature's  brow  ? 
Shall  War's  polluted  banner  ne'er  be  fiirl'd  ? 
Shall  crimes   and  tyrants   cease   but  with  the 

world  ? 
What !  are  thy  triumphs,  sacred  Truth,  belied  ? 
*Vhy  then  bith  Plito  lived— or  Sidney  died? 

Ye  fond  adorers  of  departed  fame, 
Who    warm     at    Scioio's    worth,    or    Tally's 

name  ; 
Ye  that,  in  fancied  vision,  can  admire 
The  sword  of  Brutus,  and  the  Theban  lyre  * 
Wrapt  in  historic  ardour,  who  adore 
Each  classic  haunt,  and  well-remember'd  shore^ 
Where  Valour  tuned,  amiJ  her  chosen  throng, 
The  Thtacian  trumpet  and  the  Spartan  song; 
Or,  wandering  thence,  behold  the  later  charms 
Of  England's  glory,  and  Helvetia's  arms  I 
See  Roman  tire  in  Hampden's  bosom  swell, 
And  fate  and  freedom  in  the  shaft  of  Tell! 
Say,  ye  fond  zealots  fo  the  wor'h  of  yore. 
Hath  Valour  left  the  world— to  live  no  more? 


28  CAMT  BKLL  S 

No  mere  sh.-ill  Brutus  bid  a  ryrarit  die, 

And  sternly  smile  with  vengeance  in  his  eye  ? 

Hampden  no   more,    when  suffering  Freedom 

calls, 
Encounter  fate,  and  triiimpb  as  lie  'alls? 
Nor  Tell  disclose,  through  peril  and  alarm, 
The  might  that  slumbers  in  a  peasant's  arm  ? 

Yes  !  in  that  generous  cause  for  ever  strong. 
The  patriot's  virtue,  and  the  poet's  song. 
Still,  as  the  tide  of  ages  rolls  away. 
Shall  charm  the  world,  unconscious  of  decay  ! 

Yea !  there  are  hearts,  prophetic  Hope  may 
trust, 
That  slumber  yet  in  uncreated  d-jst, 
Ordain'd  lo  fire  th'  adoring  sons  of  earth 
With  every  charm  of  uisdom  and  of  worth; 
Ordain'd  to  hght,  with  mtellectual  day. 
The  mazy  wheels  of  Nature  as  they  play, 
Or,  warm  with  Fancy's  energy,  to  glow. 
And  rival  all  but  Shakspeare's  name  below  ! 

And  say,  supernal  Powers',  who  deeplv  scan 
Heaven's  dark  decrees,  unfathom'd  yet  by  man 
When  shall  the  world  call  dcwn,  to  cleanse  hei 

shame, 
That  embryo  spirit,  yet  without  a  name, — 
That  friend  of  Nature,  whose  avenging  hands 
Shall  burst  the  Libyan's  adamirtine  banc^  ? 


PLEASURKS    OF    HOPE,  33 

V'v'ho.  sterr.ly  innrkinrr  on  his  rja'ive  soil, 
The  blood,  the  toars,  the  anguish,  and  the  toil, 
Shall  bid  e-i^'b.  righteous  heart  exult,  to  see 
Peace  to  ihc  skive,  and  ver.geance  on  the  free  ? 

Yet,  j-et,  degraded  men!  th'  expected  day 
That  breaks  3'onr  !>itter  fup,  is  far  away ; 
Trade,   wc;i!!l,,.    and  fashion,  ask  you    still  to 

bleed, 
Aiid  holy  rv.cu  give  scripture  for  the  deed  ; 
Scourged  and  debased,  on  Briton  stoops  to  save 
A  wretch,  a  coward  ;  yes,  because  a  slave  1 

Eternal  Natnre!  when  thy  giant  hand 
Had  heaved  the  floods,  and  fix'd  ihe  trembling 

land, 
When  life  sprung  startling  at  thy  plastic  call, 
Endless  herlorms,  and  Man  the  lord  of  all ; 
Say,  was  that  lordly  form  inspired  by  thee 
To  wear  eternal  chains,  arjd  iiow  the  knee  ? 
Was  man  ordain'd  the  slave  of  mail  to  toil, 
Yoked  with  the  brutes,  and  feiter'd  to  the  soil; 
Weigh'd  hi  a  tyrant's  balance  with  his  gold? 
No  I — Nature  stamp'd  us  hi  a  heavenly  mould 
She  bade  no  wretch  his  thankless  labour  urge, 
Nor,   trembling,    take    the    pittance    and    the 

scourge  ! 
No  homeless  Lybian,  on  thestor'my  deep, 
To  call  upon  his  oountrv's  name,  and  weeD ' 


30  f.VMT3EI.T/g 

TjO  !  oncp  in  fri-rnph  on  his  bound  ess  plain, 
T'.ie  quiver'ti  chief  of  Co'!gi  loved  to  reign  ' 
With  fires  prop  jrtioii'u  to  his  native  sky, 
Strength  in  his  arm,  ?.:iJ  ii^hM^ini^  in  !iis  eye! 
Ssovir'dl  with  wild  ler;t  his  sun-illumined  zone, 
The  spear,  the  Ho  i  nn  1  the  woods  his  own ! 
Or  led  the  comical,  bol  i  ■•ithout  a  plan, 
Aa  artless  savage,  but  a  fearless  man ! 

The  plunderer  came  :  alas !  no  glory  smiles 
For  Congo's  chief  on  yonder  Indian  isles! 
For  ever  fallen  !  no  son  of  Xature  now, 
With  Freedom  charter'd  on  his  manly  brow; 
Faint,  bleeding,  boa;id,  he  weeps  the  night  away 
And,  when  the  sea-'wi:id  wafs  the  lewless  day 
Starts,  with  a  bursdng  heart,  f)r  ever  more 
To  curse  the  sun  that  lights  their  guilty  shore. 
The  shrill  horn  blaw!  {7.)  at  thi'  alarum  knell 
His  guardian  angel  took  a  last  farewell  ! 
That  funeral  dirge  to  darkness  hatli  resign'd 
The  liery  grandeur  of  a  generous  mind!  — 
Poor  fetter' d  man  I  I  hear  thee  whispering  low 
Unhallow'd  vows  to  Guilt,  the  cliild  of  Woe  ! 
Friendless  thy  heart '  and  cam-.t  thou  harbour 

there 
A  wish  but  death — a  passion  but  despair? 

The  widow' d  Indian,  when  her  lord  expires, 
Mouni  i  the  dreac"  ode,  and  braves  the  faner*! 
fir  en! 


PLEASURES   OF   HOPE,  31 

So  falls. .he  heart  at  Thraldom's  bitter  sigh  ! 
So  Virtue  dies,  the  spouse  of  Liberty  ' 

Bat  not  to  Libya's  barren  climes  alone, 
To  Chili,  or  the  wild  Siberian  zone, 
Belong  the  wretched  heart  and  haggard  eye, 
Degraded  worth,  and  poor  jnisi'ortune's  sigh  ! 
Ye  orient  realms,  where  Ganges'  waters  run  ! 
Prolilic  fields  !  dominions  of  the  sun  ! 
How  long  your  tribes  have  !reml)le(l,  and  obey'd 
How  long  was  Timour'siroa  sceptre  sway'd  !  (J) 
Whose  marshali'd  hosts,  the  lions  of  the  plain, 
From  Scythia's  northern  mountains  to  the  main, 
Ragedo'eryourplunder'dslirinesandaltarsbare, 
With  blazing  torcb  and  gory  scimitar, — 
Stunn'd  with  the  cries  oi' death  each  gentle  gale. 
And  bathed  in  blood  the   'erdure  of  the  vale! 
Yet  could  no  pangs  the  immortal  spirit  tame, 
When  Brama's  children  perish'd  for  his  name 
The  martyr  smiled  beneath  avenging  power, 
A.nd  braved  the  tyrant  in  his  torturing  hour  ! 

When  Europe  sought  your  subject  realms  to 
gain, 
/\.nd  stretch'd  her  giant  sceptre  o'er  the  main, 
Taught  her  proud  barks  their  winding  way  t' shape 
And  braved  the  stormy  spirit  of  the  Cape  ;  ',m) 
Children  of  Brama  !  then  was  iMercy  nigh 
To  vash  the  stain  of  blood's  eternal  dye  '. 


r=^ 


32  CAMPBELL  S 

Did  Pea.e  descend,  to  tjiumph  and  to  save, 
\^  hen  froe-burv:  Bri:ons  cro^s'd  the  Indian  wave  f 
Ah,  ro  ! — to  more  thaii  Rome's  aniijiiion  true, 
The  Nurse  o<  Freedom  gave  it  not  to  jou  i 
She  the  hold  route  of  Europe's  guilt  began, 
And.  ill  ihii  march  oi  nations,  led  the  van! 

Rich  1)1  ihe  i,-ems  of  India's  gaudy  zone, 
And  plunder  piled  from  kip.gdoms  not  iheir  own, 
Degeneraie  Trade  !  thy  minions  could  despise 
The  heart-born  anguish  of  a' tiiousand  cries  ; 
Could  lock,  with  impious  hands,  their  teeming 

store, 
While  famish' d  nations  died  along  the  shore ;  (n) 
Could  mock  the  groans  of  fellow- men,  and  bear 
The  curse  of  kingdoms  jvjopled  with  despair ! 
Could  stamp  disgrace  ni  man's  polluted  name, 
And  barter,  with  thei:  ^>'ld,  eternal  shame  ! 

But  hark  I  asbowM  '  /  rarththe  Bramin  kneels, 
From  heavenly  chmeu  oropitious  thunder  peals' 
Of  India's  fate  her  gu.u-dian  spirits  tell, 
Prophetic  murmurs  breathing  on  the  shell, 
And  solemn  sounds,  that  awe  the  lisining  mind, 
Roll  on  the  azure  paths  ot  every  wind. 

Fots  ot  maikr.id  1  (.her  grardjan  spu-its  say; 
Revolving  ages  bring  the  '»'trf>r  r'.iy, 
When  Heaven's;  unerring  i\w  sh  ill  fal'  op  yoa. 
And  idood  for  blood  thes«  j  1 1  ,.-  pla'd/  jeiew; 


PLEASURES    OF    HOPE.  33 

Nine  times  have  Brama's  wheel"  cf  lightning 

hurld 
His  awful  presence  o'er  the  alarr    id  world  !  (o) 
Nine  times  hath  Guilt,   throw      all  his   giant 

frame, 
Convulsive  trembled  as  the  IV    hty  came  I 
Nine  times  hath  sutfering  Me    ,y  spared  in  vain: 
But  Heaven  shall  burst  her      irry  gates  again  •. 
He  comes  !  dread  Brama  shaKes  the  sunless  sky 
With  murmuring  wrath,  and  thunders  from  on 

high  ! 
Heaven's  fiery  horse,  beneath  his  wamor  form, 
Paws  the  light  clouds,  and  gallops  on  the  storm ! 
Wide  waves  his   flickering   gword,    his  bright 

arms  glow 
Like  summer  suns,  and  light  the  world  below ! 
Earth,  and  her  trembUng  isles  in  Ocean's  bed, 
Are  shook,  and  Nature  rocks  beneath  his  tread. 

"  To  pour  redress  on  India's  injured  realm. 
The  oppressor  to  dethrone,  the  proud  to  whelm  ; 
To  chase  destruction  from  her  plunder'd  shore, 
Whh  arts  and  arms  that  triumph' d  once  before, 
The  tenth  Avater  comes  !  at  Heaven's  com- 
mand 
Shall  Seriswattee  ip]  wave  her  hallow'd  wand  ! 
And  Camdeo  bright  I  and  Genesa  sublime, 
Shall  bless  with  joy  their  own  propitious  clime  ! 
Come  Heavenly  Powers!  primeval  peace  restorej 
Love! — Mercy!-—  Wisdom!  rule  forever  more!" 
3 


NOTES 

TO 

PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 


PART  I. 


Note  'a)  And  such  thy  streagtb-inspiiing  aid  that  bore 
The  hardy  Byron  to  his  native  shore. 

The  following  picture  of  his  own  distress,  give« 
by  Byron  in  liis  simple  and  interesting  narrative  jus- 
tifies the  description  in  page  13. 

After  relating  the  barbarity  of  the  Indian  cacique 
to  his  child,  he  proceeds  thus  : — "  A  day  or  two  after, 
we  put  to  sea  again,  and  crossed  ihe  great  bay  I  men- 
tioned we  had  been  at  the  bottom  of  when  we  first 
hauled  away  to  the  westward  The  land  here  waa 
very  low  and  sandy,  and  sometliing  like  the  mouth 
of  a  river  which  discharged  itself  into  th  j  sea,  and 
whicji  had  been  taken  no  notice  of  by  us  before,  as  it 
was  80  shallow  that  the  Indians  were  obliged  to  take 


NOTbS  TO  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE.       33 

ever^  thing  out  of  their  canoes,  and  carry  it  over  land. 
We  rowed  up  the  river  fuur  or  five  leagues,  and  then 
took  into  a  branch  of  it  that  ran  first  to  the  eastward, 
and  then  to  the  nortliward ;  here  it  became  much 
narrower,  and  the  stre3.fn  excessively  rajiid,  so  that 
we  gained  but  little  'vvay,  though  we  wrou^rlit  very 
hard.  At  night  we  landed  upon  its  banks,  and  had  a 
most  uncomfortable  lodging,  it  being  a  perfect  swamp; 
and  we  had  nothing  to  cover  us,  though  it  rained  ex- 
cessively. The  Indians  were  little  better  offthan  we, 
as  there  was  no  wood  here  to  make  their  w  igwams  ; 
so  that  all  they  could  do  was  to  prop  up  the  bark 
which  they  carry  in  the  bottom  of  their  canoes,  and 
shelter  themsdivt;s  as  v.dil  as  il:ey  coald  to  the  lee- 
ward of  it.  Knowing  the  difiiculties  they  had  to  en- 
counter here,  they  had  provided  themselves  with 
Bomeseal,  but  we  had  not  a  morsel  to  eat,  after  the 
heavy  fatigads  uf  ihe  day,  excepting  a  sort  of  root  we 
saw  the  Indians  make  use  of,  which  was  very  disagree- 
^able  to  the  taste.  Wd  it:,oai>;d  all  next  day  against 
the  stream,  and  fared  as  we  had  done  the  day  before. 
The  next  il.;y  :>roUj;lii:  us  lo  .lie  c  irryiiij,'  place.  Here 
was  plenty  of  wood,  but  nothing  lo  be  got  for  suste- 
nance. We  passed  this  night  as  we  had  frequently 
done,  under  a  tree  ;  but  what  we  suffered  at  this  time 
is  not  easy  to  be  expressed.  I  had  been  three  days  a» 
the  oar,  without  any  kind  of  nourishment,  except  tha 
wretched  root  above  mentioned.  I  Lad  no  shirt,  fo» 
it  had  rotted  off  by  bits.  All  my  clothes  consisted  oi  a 
short  grieko,  (something  like  a  bear-skin, )a  piece  of 
red  cloth  which  had  once  been  a  waistcoat,  and  a  rag- 
ged pair  of  trowsers,  without  shoes  or  stock'ngs." 

iNots  (fc.;  A  Britjn  aul  a  (rieni!. 

Don  Patricio  Ge ad,  a  Scotch  phvsician  in  una  of 


36  NOTES     TC 

the  Spanish  setlleinsms,  hospilahh-  relieved  Byron 
and  his  wretched  associules,  of  wiiiclj  the  Commo- 
dore speaks  in  the  warmest  leruis  of  gratitude. 

Noe  (f.j  c).-  yield  iiic  lyre  .  f  h<;.;vcu  .;:.o  lu  r  siring. 

The  seven  strings  oi'ApoMo's  harp  were  the  sym- 
bolical representation  ofthu  seven  jilanels.  Herschel 
by  discovering  an  eighth,  might  be  said  to  add  another 
Hiring  to  the  instrument 

No;e  (d.)  The  Swedish  sage.     I.iunaeus. 

Ao!e  (e.)  Deep  from  his  vaults  the  Loxian  murmurs  flow. 

Loxias  is  a  name  frequently  given  to  Apollo  by 
Greek  writers  :  it  is  met  with  more  than  once  in  the 
Choephorae  of  .Eschylus. 

Note  (/.)     Un'ocks  a  generous  store  at  'hy  command. 

Like  Hoi  eu's  rock  beneath  the  prophet's  band. 

See  Exodus,  chap.  xvii.  3,  5,  fi 

Note  (t.)  Wi  d  Obi  flies. 

Among  the  negroes  of  the  West  Indies,  Obi  oi 
Obiah,  is  the  name  of  a  magical  power,  which  is  be- 
lieved by  them  to  alfect  the  object  of  its  malignity 
with  dismal  calamities.  Such  a  belief  must  undoubt. 
edly  have  been  deduced  from  the  superstitious  my- 
thology of  their  kinsmen  on  the  coast  of  Africa.  I 
have  therefore  personified  Obi  as  the  evil  spirit  of  the 
African,  although  the  history  of  the  African  f.ribei 
mentions  the  evil  spirit  of  their  religious  creed  by  a 
different  appellation. 

Note  (f.)  Sitir's  dreirv  ni  lies 

Mr.  Bell  of  Antermony,  in  his  travel  5  through  Sibe 
ria,  informs  us  that  the  name  of  the  country  is  univer 
eally  pronounced  Sihir  by  the  Russians. 


PLEASURES    or    ROPE.  37 

Note  (A.)  Presaging  wrath  to  Poland- and  to  man! 

The  histo'-y  of  the  partition  of  Poland,  of  the  mas- 
sacre in  the  suburbs  of  Warsaw,  and  on  the  bridge  of 
Praeue,  the  triumphant  entry  of  RsMvarrow  into  the 
Polish  capital,  and  thr;  insult  otiered  to  human  nature, 
by  the  blasphemous  thanks  offered  up  to  Heaven,  for 
victories  obtained  over  men  fijliting  in  the  sacred 
cause  of  liberty,  ')y  murderers  and  oppressors,  aie 
events  generally  knovjii. 

Note  (k.)  The  shrill  horn  blew. 

The  negroes  in  the  West  Indies  are  summoned  to 
IJieir  mornin-g  work  by  a  shell  or  horn. 

N'^-'-a.)  IH'.vlotir  wa-.-^^m    •-'?  :.■  ■.:■  s  ■ -p're  sway'd  ? 

To  elucidate  this  passage,  I  shall  subjoin  a  quota- 
tion from  the  Prefare  to  letters  from  a  Hindoo  Rajah, 
u  work  of  elegance  and  celebrity. 

"  The  Impostor  of  Mecca  had  established,  as  one  oi 
the  principles  nf  his  dnrtrine,  the  merit  ofextending 
«t,  either  by  persuasion,  or  the  sword,  to  all  parts  ot 
the  earth.  JTow  steadily  this  injunction  was  adhered 
to  by  his  followers,  and  with  what  success  it  was 
pursued,  is  well  known  to  all  who  are  in  the  leas', 
conversant  in  history. 

"The  same  overwhelminstorrent  which  had  inun- 
dated the  greater  part  of  Africa,  burst  its  way  int 
the  very  heart  of  Europe,  and  covered  many  king- 
doms of  Asia  with  unbounded  desolation,  directed  its 
baleful  course  to  the  flourishinjr  orovinces  of  Hin  los- 
tan.  Here  these  fierce  and  hard>  otdventurers,  whose 
only  improvement  had  been  in  tlie  science  of  destruc- 
tion, who  added  the  fury  nf  fanaticism  to  the  ravages 
of  war,  found  the  great  -and  of  their  conquest  opposed 


58  NOTIS    TO 

by  objects  whicli  neither  the  ardoi  jf their  persever. 
ing  zeal,  nor  savage  barbarity  cou  d  surmount.  Mul- 
titude;: V  ere  ?-irri!icftd  by  the  cruel  hand  of  religious 
persecution,  and  whole  countries  were  deluged  in 
blood,  in  the  vain  hope,  that  by  ti»e  destruction  of  a 
part,  the  remainder  might  be  persuaded,  or  terrified, 
into  profest^ion  of  Mihoniedanism  ;  but  all  these  san- 
guinary efforts  were  inetfectiial ;  and  at  length,  being 
fully  convinced, thai  thoujfh  thes-tnight  extirpate,  they 
rould  never  hope  to  convert  any  number  of  the  Hin- 
doos, they  relinquished  the  impracticable  idea,witn 
which  they  had  entered  upon  their  career  of  conquest, 
and  contented  themselves  with  the  acquirement  of 
the  civil  dominion   and  almost    universal   empire  o! 

Hindostan." Letters   from   a  Hindoo   Rajah,   by 

Eliza  Hamilton. 

yci'e  (r;i.)  And  braved  the  stcrmv  spirit  of  the  Cape, 

See  the  description  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope, 
translated  from  Camoens,  by  Mickle. 

Note  {»!.)  While  famisb'd  nations  died  xlcnj  the  shore. 

The  following  account  of  the  Bri  ish  conduct,  and 
Its  consequences,  'n  Bengal,  will  afford  a  sufficient 
idea  of  the  fact  alluded  to  in  this  passage.  After  de- 
gcribing  the  monopoly  of  salt,  betel-nut,  and  tobacco, 
the  historian  proceeds  thus  : — "  Money  In  this  current 
came  but  by  drops;  it  could  not  quench  the  thirst  ot 
those  who  waited  in  India  to  receive  it.  An  expedi- 
ent, such  as  it  was,  remained  to  quicken  its  pace.  The 
natives  could  live  with  little  salt,  but  could  not  want 
food.  r?ome  of  the  agents  saw  themselves  well  situ- 
ated for  collect tn?  the  rice  into  stores:  they  did  so. 
Thev  knew  \he  Gentoos  would  ratner  die  tnan  violate 


PLEASURES   OF   HOPE.  39 

Ihe  principles  of  their  relii;!:':!  by  eating  flesh.  The 
alternative  would  therefore  he  between  giving  what 
the>  had  or  dying.  Tho  ir''n!-hants  sunk  ;— they 
that  culiivated  the  laii'',  .'.■.;!  s  v.-  ;he  harvest  at  the 
disposal  of  others,  planted  in  doubt— scarcity  ensued- 
Then  the  monopoly  was  easier  managed — sickness 
ensued.     In  some  districts  sift  languid  living  left  the 

bodies  oftheir  numerous  dead  unburied." Short 

History  of  Evfflish  Transacfiovs  in  the  East  Indieey 
page  145. 

Nn'e  (0.)    Nil  e  times  ha' li  rrama's  wheels  of  lightning  hurl'd 
His  awful  presence  o'er  the  prostrate  world  ! 

Amongthe  sublime  fictions  of  the  Hindoo  mythology^ 
t  is  one  arricl^  of  bf^liof  tb-^i  ^.^:'i'  Dfity  Prnma  has  de- 
Bcended  nii'e  ;:.;i^;s  a,;i.ii  ihe  \\;  ild  i.n  v^:  .v«  is  forms, 
and  that  he  is  ye>.  to  n.nprnr  atertls  rime,  in  the  figure 
of  a  warrior  upon  a  white  horse,  i<t  cut  off  ail  in- 
corrigibi'  o.V'ii.'.ers.  'i  .'.n-r  i^  iSsh  wed  ui^cd  to  ex- 
press his  descent. 

N -fp  (f)  ^n"  Onnripo  bnp-nt.  *nrf  Gene'^  sublime. 

Camdeo  is  the  God  of  Love,  in  the  mythology  oQhe 
Hindoos.  Genesa  and  Seriswatiee  correipond  to  Iw 
pagan  deities  Janus  and  Minerva. 


CAMPBELL'^ 
PIEASTJRES   OF    HOPi 


ANALYSIS  OF  PART  II. 


Apostrophe  to  the  power  of  Love — its  intimate 
connexion  witli  generou;-  md  social  Sensibili.y — allu- 
sion to  that  beautiful  passage  in  the  beginning  of  the 
book  of  Genesis,  which  represents  the  happiness  of 
Paradise  itself  incoiuplet«,  till  love  was  superadded 
to  its  other  blessings — the  dreams  of  future  felicity 
which  a  lively  imagination  is  apt  to  cherish,  when 
Hope  is  animated  by  refined  attachment — this  dispo- 
Biiion  to  combine,  in  one  imaginary  scene  of  resi- 
lence,  all  that  is  pleasing  in  our  estimate  of  happi- 
ness, compared  to  the  skill  of  the  great  artist,  who 
personified  f>erf  ct  beauty,  in  the  picture  of  Venus, 
by  an  assemblage  of  the  most  beautiful  features  he 
could  find — a  summer  and  winter  evening  described 
as  they  may  be  supposed  to  arise  in  the  mind  of  one 
who  wishes,  with  enthusiasm,  for  the  union  of 
friendship  and  retiren:i!at. 

Hope  and  Imagination  inseparable  agents— even  in 
those  contemplative  moments  when  our  imagination 
wanders  beyond  the  boundaries  of  this  world,  our 
minds  are  not  unattended  with  an  impression  that 
we  shall  some  day  have  a  wider  and  distinct  prospect 
of  the  universe,  instead  of  the  partial  glimpse  we 
now  enjoy. 

The  last  and  most  sublime  influence  of  Hope,  is  the 
concluding  topic  of  the  Poem,— the  predominance  of 
a  belief  in  a  future  state  over  the  terrors  attendant 
on  dissolution— the  baneful  influence  of  that  scepti- 
cal phi!  )Sopliy  which  bars  us  froui  such  comforts— al- 
lusion to  thf^  fite  of  a  suicide— Episode  of  Conrad  and 
Ellenore—ronclusion 


PLEASURES  OF  HO^E 


PART  n. 

In  joyous  youth,  what  soul  hath  never  known 
Thought,  feeUng,  tas;e,  hannosiious  to  its  own! 
Who  hath  not  paused  while  Beauty's  pensive  eye 
Ask'd  from  his  heart  the  homage  of  a  sigh  ? 
Who    hath    not    ovvn'd,    with  rapture -smitten 

frams, 
The  power  of  grace,  the  magic  of  a  name  ? 

There  be  perhaps  who  barren  hearts  avow, 
Cold  as  the  rocks  on  Torneo's  hoary  brow  ; 
There  be  whose  loveless  wisdom  never  fail'd 
In  self-adoring  pride  securely  raail'd; 
But,  triumph  not,  ye  peace-eiiamour'd  few! 
Fire,  Nature,  Genius,  never  dwelt  with  you' 
For  you  no  fancy  consecrates  the  scene 
Where  rapture  utter'd  vows,  and  wept  between 
'Tis  yours,  unmoved  to  sever  and  to  meet ; 
No  pledge  is  sacred,  and  no  home  is  sweet ' 

43 


A  CAMPSEi.L^S 

Who  that  would  ask  a  heart  to  dullness  wed 
The  waveless  calm,  the  slumber  of  the  dead  t 
No  :  the  wnld  bliss  of  Nature  needs  alloy, 
And  care  and  sorrow  fan  the  fire  of  joy  ! 
And  say,  without  our  hopes,  without  our  fears, 
Without  the  home  that  plighted  love  endears, 
Without  the  smiles  frcm  partial  beauty  won, 
O  1  what  were  man  !-  -a  world  without  a  sun  ! 

Till  flymen  brought  his  love-dehghted  hour, 
There  dwelt  no  joy  in  Eden's  rosy  bower  ! 
In  vain  the  viewless  seraph  lingering  there, 
At  starry  midnight  charm' d  the  silent  air  ; 
In  vain  the  wild-bird  caroU'd  on  the  steep, 
To  hail  the  sun,  slow-wheeling  from  the  deep 
In  vain,  to  soothe  the  soHtary  shade, 
Aerial  notes  in  mingling  measure  play'd ; 
The  summer  wind  that  ?hook  the  spangled  tree. 
The  whispering  wave,  the  murmur  of  the  bee; 
Still  slowly  pass'd  the  melancholy  day. 
And  still  the  stranger  wist  notv>hereto  stray,— 
The  world  was  sad  I — the  garden  was  a  wild ! 
And    Man,    the    hermit,    sigh'd — till   Woman 
smiled  ! 

True,  the  sad  power  to  generous  hearts  may 
bring 
Delirious  anguish  on  his  f  ery  win^! 


PLEASURES    OF    HOPE.  45 

Barr'd  from  delight  by  Fate's  untimely  hand, 
By  wealtliless  lot,  or  pitiless  commaad  ! 
Or  dooij'd  to  o-aze  on  beauties  that  adorn 
The  smile  of  triumph,  or  the  frown  oi  scorn ; 
While  Alemory  watches  o'er  the  sad  review 
Of  joys  that  faded  like  the  morning  dew! 
Peace  may  depart — and  life  and  nature  seem 
A  barren  path — a  wildncss,  and  a  dream  ! 

But,  can  tht  noble  mind  for  ever  brood; 
The  w^illing  victim  of  a  weary  mood, 
On  heartless  cares  that  squander  life  away. 
And  cloud  young  Genius  brightening  into  day  f 
Shame  to  the  coward  thought  that  e'er  betray'd 
The  noon  of  manhood  to  a  myrtle  shade  !  (a) 
If  Hope's  creative  spirit  cannot  raise 
One  trophy  sacred  to  thy  future  days, 
Scorn  the  dull  crowdthat  haunt  the  gloomy  shrine 
Of  hopeless  love  to  murmur  and  repine  ! 
But,  should  a  sigh  of  milder  mood  express 
Thy  heart-warm  wishes,  true  to  happiness, 
Should  Heave ii's  fair  harbinger  delight  to  pour 
Her  bhssful  visions  on  thy  pensive  hour, 
No  tear  to  blot  thy  memory's  pictured  page, 
No  fears  but  such  as  fancy  can  assuage  ; 
Though  thy  wild  heart  some  hapiess  hour  maf 

miss 
The  peaceful  tenor  of  unvaried  bliss, 
(For  love  pursues  an  ever-devious  race, 
"True  to  the  witiding  line  uneits  ol  grace;) 


46  cahpbeil's 

Yti  still  may  Hope  her  talisman  employ 
To  snatch  from  Heaven  anticipa  ^ed  joy, 
And  all  her  kindred  energies  impart 
That  burn  the  brightest  in  the  purest  heart ! 

When  first  the  Rhodian's  mimic  art  array'd 
The  queen  of  Beauty  in  her  Cyprian  shade, 
The  happy  master  mingled  on  his  piece 
Each  look  that  charm' d  him  m  the  fair  of  Greece^ 
To  feultless  Nature  true,  he  stole  a  grace 
From  every  finer  form  and  sweeter  face  ! 
And,  as  he  sojourned  on  the  iEgean  isles, 
Woo'd   all  their  love,  and  treasured  all  theij 

smiles  ! 
Then  glow'd  the  tints,  pure,  precious,   and  re 

fined, 
And  mortal  charms  seem'd  heavenly  when  com- 
bined. 
Love  on  the  picture  snuled  I   Expression  pour'4 
Her  mingling  spirit  there — and  Greece  adored  ! 

So  thy  fair  hand,  enamour' d  Fan^'v  !  gleans 
The  treasured  pictures  of  a  thousand  scenes; 
Thy  pencil  traces  on  the  Lover's  thought 
Some  cottage-home,  from  towns  and  toil  remote, 
Where   Love    and   Lore   may  claim  alternate 

hours, 
With  Peace  embosom'd  in  Idalian  bowers! 
Remote  from  busy  Life's  bewilder'd  vvay, 
O'er  all  his  heart  shall  Tasis  and  Beauty  sway; 


PLEASURES    OF    HOPE.  47 

Free  on  the  sunny  slope,  or  winding  ahoip,  , 

With  hermit  steps  to  wander  and  adore  ;  j 

There  shall  he  love,  when  genial  morn  appears,  j 

Like  pensive  Beauty  smiling  in  her  *er,i\j. 

To  watch  the  bright'ning  roses  of  the  sky, 

And  muse  on  Nature  with  a  poet's  eye  I 

And  when  the  sun's  last  splendour  lights  the 

deep, 
The  woods;  and  waves,   and  murmuring  winds 

asleep  ; 
When  fairy  harps  th'  Hesperian  planets  hail, 
And  the  lone  cuckoo  sighs  along  the  vale, 
His  path  shall  be  where  streamy  mountains  swell 
Their  shadowy  grandeur  o'er  the  narrow  dell, 
Where  moulderhig  piles  and  forests  intervene, 
Ming  jng  with  darker  tints  the  living  green  ! 
No  circhng  hills  his  ravish' d  eye  to  bound. 
Heaven,  earth,  and  ocean,  blazing  all  around  ! 

The   moon  is  up — the    waich-tower   dimly 
burns — 
And  down  the  vale  his  sober  step  returns  ; 
But  pauses  oft  as  winding  rocks  convey 
The  still  sweet  fall  of  Music  far  away  ' 
And  oft  he  lingers  from  his  home  awhile 
To  watch  the  dying  notes  !  and  start,  and  smile 

Let  Winter  come  !  let  polar  spirits  sweep 
The   darkening   world,   and   tempest-troubled 
deep ! 


48  Campbell's 

Though   boundless  snows   thft  wither' d   heath 

deform, 
And  the  dim  sun  scarce  wanders  through  the 

storm  ! 
Y"et  shall  the  smile  of  social  love  repay. 
With  mental  light,  the  melancholy  day  ' 
And,  when  its  short  and  sullen  noon  is  o'er, 
The  ice-chain'd  waters  slumbering  on  the  shore, 
How  bright  the  fagots  in  his  httle  hall 
Blaze  on  the  hearth,  and  warm  the  pictured  wall! 

How  blest  he  names,  in  Love's  familiar  tone, 
The  kind  fair  friend,  by  nature  mark'd  his  own ! 
And,  in  the  waveless  mirror  of  his  mind. 
Views  the  fleet  years  of  pleasure  left  behind, 
Since  Anna's  empire  o'er  his  heart  began  ! 
Since  first  he  call'd  her  his  before  the  holy  man  ! 

Trim  the  gay  taper  in  his  rust'o,  dome, 
And  Ught  the  wint'ry  paradise  of  home  ! 
And  let  the  half-uncurtain'd  window  hail 
Some  way-worn  man  benighted  in  the  vale  ! 
Now,  while  the  moaning  nisht-wind  rages  high! 
As  sweep  the  shot-stars  down  the  troubled  sky. 
While  fiery  hosts  in  Heaven's  \v\de  circle  play, 
And  bathe  in  livid  li^lit  the  milk v- way. 
Safe  from  the  storm,  the  meteor,  and  the  shower. 
Some  pleasing  page  shall  charm  the  solemn  hour 
With  pathos  shall  command,  wi'h  wi*  beguile 
A  generous  tear  of  anguish,  or  a  smile — 


PLEASURES    OF   HOPE.  49 

Thy  woes,  Arion!  and  thy  simple  tale,  (b) 
O'er  al!  the  heart  shall  triumph  and  prevail ! 
Charm' d  as  they  read  the  verse  too  sadly  true, 
Bow  gallant  Albert,  and  his  weary  crew, 
Heaved  all  thejr  guns,  their  foundering  bark  to 

save. 
And  toil'd — and  shriek' d — and  pcrish'd  on  the 

wave  I 

Yes,  at  the  dead  of  night,  by  Lonna's  steep, 
The  seaman's  cry  was  heard  along  the  deep; 
There  on  his  funeral  waters,  dark  and  vvild, 
The  dying  father  blest  his  darhng  child  ! 
Oh!  Mercy,  sliield  her  innocence,  he  cried, 
Spent  on  the  prayer  his  bursting  heart,  and  died! 

Or  will  they  learn  how  generous  worth  sub- 
limes 
The  robber  Moor,  (c;  and  pleads  for  all  hiscrimesl 
How  poor  Amelia  kiss'd,  with  many  n  tear, 
His  hand  blood-stained,  but  ever,  ever  dear  ! 
Hung  on  the  tortured  bosom  of  her  tord, 
And  wept,  and  pray'd  perdition  from  his  sword! 
Nor  sought  in  vain  !  at  that  heart -piercing  cry 
The  strings  of  nature  crack' d  with  agony  ! 
He,  with  delirious  laugh,  the  dagger  hurl'd. 
And  burst  the  t\es  that  bound  him  to  the  world 


"^  CAMPBELL'S 

Turn   fror  i  his  dying  words,  that  smite  with 
steel 
The  shuddering  thoughts,  or  wind  them  on  the 

v,'heel — 
Turn  to  the  gentler  melodies  that  suit 
Thalia's  harp,  or  Pan's  Arcadian  lute  ; 
Or,  down  the  stream  of  Truth's  historic  page, 
From  chnie  to  clime  descend,  from  age  to  age! 

Yet  there,  perhaps,  may  darker  scenes  obtrude 
Than  Fancy  fashions  in  her  wildest  mood  ; 
There  shall  he  pause,  with  horrent  brow,  to  rate 
What  millions  died,  that  Caesar  might  be  great!  {d'l 
Orlearn  the  late  that  !)leeding  thousands  bore,  (e) 
March' d  by  their  Charles  to  Dneiper's  swampy 

shore  ; 
Faint  in  his  wounds,  and  shivering  in  the  blast, 
The  Swedish  soldier  sunk — and  groan' d  his  last 
File  after  file,  the  stormy  sho.vers  benumb. 
Freeze  every  standard-sheet,  and  hush  the  drum 
Horsemen  and  horse  confess'd  the  bitter  pang, 
And  arms  and  warriors  fell  with  hollow  clang 
Yet,  ere  he  sunk  in  Nature's  last  repose, 
Ere  life's  warm  torrent  to  the  fountain  froze, 
The  dying  man  to  Sweden  turn'd  his  eye, 
Thought  of  his  home,  and  closed  it  wirh  a  sigh 
Imperial  pride  look'd  sullen  on  his  p4ight, 
And  Charles  behold  —nor  shudder' d  at  the  sight 


I-1.EASUKES   OF    HOPE.  5. 

Above,  below,  -n  Ocean,  Earth,  and  sky, 
1'hy  fairy  worlds.  Imagination,  lie, 
AndHopn  attends,  companion  of  the-way, 
Thy  dream  by  I'ight,  thy  visions  of  the  day  ! 
In  yonder  pensiie  orb,  and  every  sphere 
That  gems  the  starry  girdle  of  the  year  ! 
In  those  unmeasured  worlds,  she  bids  thee  tell, 
Pure  from  their  God,  created  millions  dwell, 
Whose  names  and  natures,  unreveal'd  below, 
We  yet  shall  learn,  and  wonder  as  we  know ; 
For,  as  tona's  Saint,  a  giant  form,  (/) 
Throned   on   her  towers,   conversing  with  the 

storm. 
(When  o'er  each  Runic  altar,  weed-entwined, 
The  vesper-clock  tolls  mournful  to  the  wind,) 
Counts  every  wave- worn  isle,  and  mountain h<.fii 
From  Kilda4o  the  green  lerne's  shore  ; 
So,  when  thy  pure  and  renovated  mind 
Thi.s  perishable  dust  hath  left  behind. 
Thy  seraph  eye  shall  count  the  starry  train, 
Like  distant  isles  embosom'd  in  the  main  ; 
Rapt  to  the  shrine  where  motion  first  began, 
And  light  and  life  in  mingling  torrent  ran. 
From  whence  each  bright  rotundity  was  hurl'c^ 
The  throne  of  God, — the  centre  of  the  world  ! 

Oh !  vainly  wise,  the  moral  Muse  hath  sung 
That  suasiv  ?  Hope  hath  bu'  a  Syren  tongu3 ' 


52  Campbell's 

True  ;  she  may  sport  \v\\h  life  s  yntutor'd  day, 
Nor  heed  the  solace  of  its  last  decay,- 
The  guileless  heart  her  happy  mansion  spiim. 
And  pan  like  Ajut — never  to  return  !  ig) 

But  yet,   methiriks,   when  Wisdom  shall  a» 
suage 
The  griefs  and  passions  of  our  greener  age, 
Though  dull  the  close  of  life,  and  far  away 
Each  flower  that  hail'd  the  dawning  of  the  day; 
Yet  o'er  her  lovely  hopes  that  once  were  dear, 
The  time-taught  spirit,  pensive,  not  severe, 
With  milder  griefs  her  aged  eye  shall  fill. 
And  weep  their  falsehood,  though  she  love  then 
still ! 

Thus,  %\'ith  forgi\ing  tears,  and  r^onciled, 
The  king  of  Judah  mourn'd  his  rebel  child  ! 
Musing  on  days,  when  yet  the  guiltless  boy 
Smiled  on  his  sire,  and  fiU'd  his  heart  with  joy. 
My  Absalom  !  (the  voice  of  nature  cried  !) 
Oh  !  that  for  thee  thy  father  could  have  died  ! 
For  bloody  was  the  deed  and  rashly  done, 
That  slew  my  Absalom  ! — my  sou  I — my  son  ! 

Unfading  Hope  ;  when  life's  last  embers  bum, 
When  soul  to  soul,  and  dust  to  dust  return ! 
Heaven  to  thy  charse  resigns  the  awful  hour ! 
OhI  then,  thy  kingduiu  comes'  Immortal  Power' 


PLEASURES    OF    HOPE.  53 

What  though  each  spark  ofeanh-bornra^turefly 
The  quivering  Hp,  pale  cheek,  and  closing  eye. 
Bright  to  the  soul  thy  seraph  hands  convey 
The  morning  dream  of  life's  eternal  day — 
Then,  then,  the  triumph  and  the  trance  begin  1 
And  all  the  Fhcenix  spirit  burns  within  I 

Oh  !  deep  enchanting  prelude  to  repose, 
The  dawn  of  bUss,  the  twilight  of  our  woes! 
Yet  half  I  hear  the  partinff  spirit  sigh, 
It  is  a  dread  and  awful  thing  to  die  I 
Mysterious  worlds,  untravell'd  by  the  sun  ! 
Where  Time's  far-wanderinsr  tide  has  neverrun, 
From   your  unfathom'd  shades,   and   viewless 

spheres, 
A  warning  comes,  unheard  by  other  ears. 
'Tis  Heaven's  commanding  trumpet,  long  and 

loud. 
Like  Sinai's  thunder,  peahng  from  the  cloud  ! 
While  Nature  hears,  with  terror-mingled  trust, 
The  shock  that  hurls  her  fabric  to  the  dust ; 
And,  like  the  trembUng  Hebrew,  when  he  trod 
The  roaring  waves,  and  call'd  upon  his  God, 
With  mortal  terrors  clouds  immortal  bhss, 
A.id  shrieks,  and  hovers  o'er  the  dark  abvs?! 

Daughter  of  Faith,  awake,  arise,  illume 
The  dread  unknown,  the  chao?  of  the  tomb  ! 
Melt,  and  dispel,  ye  spectre  doubts,  tha^  /,>ll 
Uhnmerian  darkness  on  the  partir.g  soni  I 


f5l  CA3TrEZLT/s 

Fly,  like  the  moon-eyed  herald  of  Disrrif^y; 
Chased  on  his  night-steed  by  the  star  of  day  ! 
The  strife  is  o'er — the  pangs  of  Nature  close, 
And  life's  Past  rapture  triumphs  o'er  her  woe& 
Hark  !  as  the  spirit  eyes,  v/ith  eagle  gaze, 
The  noon  of  Heaven  undazzled  by  the  blaze, 
On  Heavenly  winds  that  waft  her  to  the  sky 
Kloat  the  sweet  tones  of  star-born  melody; 
Wild  as  that  hallow'd  anthem  sent  to  hail 
Bethlehem's  shepherds  in  the  lonely  vale, 
When  Jordan  hush'd  his  waves,  and  midnigh. 

stid 
Watch'd  on  the  holy  towers  of  Zion  hill  I 

Poul  of  the  just  I  companion  of  the  dead  ! 
Where  is  thy  home,  and  whther  art  thou  fled  ! 
Back  to  its  heavenly  source  thy  being  goes, 
Swift  as  the  comet  wheels  to  whence  he  rose  ; 
Doom'd  on  his  airy  path  av/hile  to  burn. 
And  doom'd  like  thee,  to  travel  and  return. — 
Hark  I  from  the  world's  exploding  centre  driven, 
With  sounds  that  shook  the  firmament  of  Hea- 
ven, 
Careers  the  fiery  giant,  fast  and  far. 
On  bick'rincT  wheels,  and  adamantine  car; 
From  planet  whirl'd  to  planet  more  remote, 
He  visi's  realms  beyond  the  reach  of  thought; 
But.  wheeHng  homeward,  when  hiscourseis  run, 
Curbs  the  red  voke,  and  mingles  wiih  the  sun '. 


PLEASURES    OF   HOPE.  55 

So  hath  the  traveller  of  earth  unfurl'd 
Her  trembling  wings,  emerging  from  the  world  ; 
And  o'er  the  path  by  mortal  never  trod, 
Sprung  to  her  source,  the  bosom  of  her  God! 

Oh  .  lives  there,  Heaven !  beneath  thy  dread 
expanse. 
One  hopeless,  dark  Idolater  of  Chance, 
Content  to  feed,  with  pleasures  unrefined. 
The  lukewarm  passions  of  a  lowly  mind; 
Who,  mould'ring  earthward,  'reft  of  every  trust. 
In  joyless  union  wedded  to  the  dust, 
Could  all  his  parting  energy  dismiss. 
And  call  this  barren  world  sufficient  bliss  ? 
There  live,  alas !  of  Heaven-directed  mien. 
Of  cultured  soul,  and  sapient  eye  serene, 
Who  hail'd  thee,  Man  !  the  pilgrim  of  a  day, 
Spouse  of  the  worm,  and  brother  of  the  clay  ■ 
Frail  as  the  leaf  in  Autumn's  yellow  bower, 
Dust  in  the  wind,  or  dew  upon  the  flower  ! 
A  friendless  slave,  a  child  without  a  sire, 
Whose  mortal  life,  and  momentary  fire. 
Lights  to  the  grave  hi?  chance-created  forta 
As  ocean-wrecks  illuminate!  the  storm  ; 
And  when  the  gun's  tremendous  flash  is  o'er, 
To  Night  aud  Silence  sink  for  ever  more  ' 
Are  these  the  pompous  tidings  ye  proclaim, 
Lights  ofthe  worhl,  and  demi-gods  of  Fame  ? 
Is  this  your  triumph-— this  your  proud  applause. 
Childrer  of  Truth,  ai  d  champions  of  her  cause  I 


56  CAMPBELL  S 

For  this  hath  Science  search'd  on  weary  >ving» 
By  shore  and  sea — each  mute  and  Hving  thing  ? 
Launch'd  with  Iberia's  pilot  from  the  r-teep, 
To  worlds  unknown,  and  isles  beyond  the  det  p  ? 
Or  round  the  cope  her  living  chariot  driven, 
And  wheel' d  in  triumph  through  the  signt.  of 
tleaven  ? 

Oh  !  star-eyed  Science,  ha^t  thou  wander'd 

there, 
To  waft  us  home  the  message  of  despair  ? 
Then  bind  the  palm,  thy  sage's  brow  to  suit. 
Of  blasted  leaf,  and  death-disiilling  fruit ! 
Ah  me  !  the  laurell'd  wreaih  that  murder  rears, 
Blood-nursed,  and  water'dby  the  widow's  tears. 
Seems  not  so  foul,  so  tainted,  and  so  dread, 
As  waves  the  night-shade  round  the  sceptic  head 
What  is  the  bigot's  torch,  the  tyrant's  chain? 
I  smile  on  death,  if  Heaven- ward  Hope  remain' 
But,  if  the  warring  winds  of  Nature's  strife 
Be  all  the  faithless  charier  of  my  life, 
If  Chance  awaked,  inexorable  power  I 
This  frail  and  feverish  being  of  an  hour, 
Doom'd  o'er  the  world's  precarious  sceno  t« 

sweep. 
Swift  as  tne  tempest  travels  on  the  deep. 
To  know  Delight  but  by  her  parting  smile,    . 
And  toil,  and  wish,  and  weep  a  little  while 
Then  melt,  ye  elements,  that  form'd  in  -wain 
This  troubled  pulse,  and  visionary  brain  . 


PLEASURES    OF    HOPE.  61 

Faie,  ye  wiid-flowers,  memorials  of  my  doom 
And  sink,  ye  stars,  that  light  mc  to  the  tomb  1 
Truth,  ever  lovely,  since  the  world  began, 
The  foe  of  tyrants,  and  the  friend  of  man, — 
How  can  thy  words  from  balmy  slumber  start 
Reposing  Virtue,  pillow'd  on  the  heart ! 
Yet,  if  thy  voice  the  note  of  thunder  roll'd, 
And  that  were  true  which  NaUire  never  told, 
Let  Wisdom  smile  not  on  her  conquer' d  field ; 
No  rapture  dawns,  no  pleasure  is  reveal'd  I 
Oh  !  let  her  read,  nor  loudly,  nor  elate, 
The  doom  that  bars  us  from  a  better  fate  ; 
But,  sad  as  angels  for  the  good  man's  sin, 
Weep  to  record,  and  blush  to  give  it  in ! 

And  well  may  Doubt,  the  mother  of  Dismay, 
Pause  at  her  martyr's  tomb,  and  read  the  lay 
Down  by  the  wilds  of  yon  deserted  vale, 
It  darkly  hints  a  melancholy  tale  ! 
There,  as  the  homeless  madman  sits  alone. 
In  hollow  winds  he  hears  a  spirit  moan  I 
And  there,  they  say,  a  wizard  orgie  crowds, 
When  the  moon  lights  her  watch-tower  in  the 

clouds. 
Pour,  lost  Alonzo !  Fate's  neglected  child  ! 
Mild  be  the  doom  of  Heaven — asthouwert  mild. 
For  oh !  thy  heart  in  holy  mould  was  cast, 
And  all  thy  deeds  were  blameless,  l<ut  the  last. 
Poor,  lost  Alonzo  !  still  I  seem  to  hear 
The  clod  that  struck  thy  hollo  v -sou ndu^g  bier' 


58  CAMPBELL*  S 

When    Friendship  paid,  in  speechless    sorrow 

drown' d, 
Thy  midnight  rites,  but  not  on  hallow'd  ground ! 

Cease  every  joy  to  glimmer  on  my  mind. 
But  leave — oh  1  leave  the  hght  of  Hope  behind ' 
What  though  my  winged  hours  of  bliss  have 

been. 
Like  angel-visits,  few,  and  far  between! 
Her  musing  mood  shali  every  pang  appease, 
And  charm — when  pleasures  lose  the  power  to 

please  ! 

Yes  1  let  each  rapture,  dear  to  Nature,  flee; 
Close  not  the  light  of  Fortune's  stormy  sea — 
Mirth,    Music,    Friendship,    Love's   prop'tioup 

smile 
Chase  every  care,  and  charm  a.httle  while, 
Ecstatic  throbs  the  fluttering  heart  employ, 
And  all  her  strings  are  harmonized  to  joy  !  — 
But  why  so  short  is  Love's  delighted  hour  ' 
Why  fades  the  dew  on  Beauty's  sweetest  flower ( 
Why  can  no  hymned  charm  cf  .Music  heal 
The  sleepless  woes  impassion' d  spirits  feel? 
Can  Fancy's  fairy  hands  no  veil  create 
To  hide  the  sad  realities  of  fate  ?— 

No!  not  tne  quaint  remariv,  the  sapient  rule, 
Cs  irall  the  pdde  of  Wisdom's  worldly  school 


PLEASURES    OF    HOPE.  59 

Have  povMer  to  soothe,  unaided  and  ulone, 
The  heart  that  vibrates  to  a  feeling  tone  ! 
Whea  step-dame  Nature  every  bliss  recalb, 
Fleet  as  the  meteor  o'er  tlie  desert  falls  ; 
When,  'reft  of  all,  yon  widow'd  sire  appears 
A  lonely  hermit  in  the  vale  of  years  ; 
Say,  can  the  world  one  joyous  thought  bestow 
To  Friendship,  weeping  at  the  couch  of  Woe  f 
No !  but  a  brighter  soothes  the  last  adieu, 
Souls  of  impassion'd  mould  she  speaks  to  you, 
Weep  not,  she  says,  at  Nature's  transient  pain. 
Congenial  spirits  part  to  meet  again  I 

What  plaintive  sobs  thy  filial  spirit  drew. 
What  sorrow  choked  thy  long  and  last  adieu, 
Daughter  of  Conrad  !  when  he  heard  his  knell, 
And  bade  his  country  and  lus  child  farewell  ! 
Doom'd  the  long  isles  of  Sydney  Co\  3  to  see, 
The  martyr  of  his  crimes,  but  true  to  thee  ? 
Thrice  the  sad  father  tore  thee  from  his  heart, 
And  thrice  return' d,  to  bless  thee  and  to  part ; 
Thrice   from  his   trembhng  lips  he  murmur'd 

low 
The  plaint  that  own'd  unutterable  woe  ; 
Till  Faith,  prevailing  o'er  his  sullen  doom, 
As  burst  the  morn  on  night's  unfathom'd  glooni, 
Lured  his  dim  eye  to  deathless  hopes  sublime 
Beyond  the  realms  o^  Nature  and  of  time  I 


60  CAMPBELL'S 

*  An^  weep  not  thus,  (he  ciied)  young  Elle« 
nore, 
My  bosom  bleeds,  but  soon  shall  bleed  no  more ! 
Short  shall  this  half-extinguish'd  ppirit  burn, 
i\.nd  soon  these  Umbs  to  kindred  dust  return ! 
But  not,  my  child,  with  life's  prerarious  fire, 
The  immortal  ties  oi'  Xatiire  shall  expire  ; 
These  shall  resist  the  triumph  of  decay 
When  time  is  o'er,  and  worlds  have  pass'd  awa/l 
Cold  in  (he  dust  thisperish'd  heart  may  lie, 
But  that  which  warm'd  it  once  shall  never  die ! 
Thar  spark  uiiburied  in  its  mortal  frame, 
With  living:  light,  eternal,  and  the  same, 
Shall  beam  on  Joy's  interminable  years, 
Unveil' d  by  darkness — unassuaged  by  tears! 

"  Yet  on  the  barren  shore  and  stormy  deep, 
One  tedious  watch  is  Conrad  doom'd  to  weep; 
But  when  I  gain  the  home  without  a  friend, 
And  press  the  uneasy  couch  where  none  attend, 
This  last  embrace,  still  cherish'd  in  my  heart, 
Shall  calm  the  struggling  spirit  ere  it  part ! 
Thy  darling  form  shall  seem  to  hover  nigh, 
And  hush  the  groan  of  life's  last  agony ! 

"Farewell!  when  strangers  lift  thy  father's 
bier, 
And  place  my  nameless  stone  ^^^thout  a  tear  ; 
When  each  returning  pledge  nath  told  my  ciiild 
That  Conrad's  tomb  is  o.i  the  dc^t  it  piled  : 


pt.easx:kes  of  hope,  61 

And  when  tlip,  ..Iream  of  troubled  fancy  seee 
[is  lonely  ra-ak  gia^^s  waving  in  t!ie  breeze  ; 
Who  then  will  sooihe  tiiy  grief  when  mine  is 

o'er  ! 
Who  will  protec,  tiioe,  helpless  EUenore? 
Shall  secret  scenes  thy  tilial  sorrows  hide, 
Scorn' d  by  the  world,  to  iactious  guilt  allied  ? 
Ah  !  no  :   nieihinks  the  generous  and  the  good 
Will  woo  thee  from  the  shades  of  sohiude  ! 
O'er  friendless  grief  compassion  shall  awake, 
And  smile  o)i  innocence,  for  Mercv's  sake  !" 

Inspiring  tnought  of  rapture  yet  to  be, 
The  tears  of  love  were  hopeless,  but  for  thro ! 
If  in  that  frame  no  deathless  spirit  dwell, 
If  that  faint  murmur  be  the  last  farewell! 
If  fate  unite  the  faithful  but  to  part, 
Why  is  their  memory  sacred  to  the  heart? 
Why  does  the  brother  of  my  childhood  seem 
Restored  awhile  in  every  pleasing  dream  ? 
Why  do  I  joy  the  lonely  spot  to  view. 
By    artless   iriendship    bless'd   when   life  was 
new, 

Eternal  Hope  !  when  yonder  spheres  sublime 
Peal'd  their  first  notes  to  sound  the  march  of 

Time, 
Thy  joyous  youth  began — but  not  to  fade. — 
Wh»  ■□  all  the  sister  planets  have  decay' d 


62  CAMPBELL'S    PLEASURES    OP    HOPS. 

When  wrapt  in  fii-e  the  realms  of  ether  glow, 
And  Heaven's   last  thunder  shakes  the  world 

below  ; 
Thou,  undismay'd  shah  o'er  the  ruins  smile. 
And  light  thy  torch  at  Nature's  funeral  pii©' 


NOTES 


PLEASURES  01'   HOPE. 


I'ART  II 


Note  (a)  The  noon  of  Manhood  to  a  myrtle  shade ! 

Sacred  to  Venus  is  the  myrtle  shade. Drydeu 

Note  (fc)  Thy  woes,  Arion ' 

F%lconer,  in  his  poem,  The  Shipwreck,  speaks  of  him- 
•elf  by  the  name  of  Arion.  See  Falconer's  Shipwreck^ 
Canto  111. 

Note  (c)  The  robber  Moor. 

See  Schiller's  tragedy  of  the  Robber,  scene  ▼. 

Note  (d.)  What  million^died  that  Caesar  might  be  great 

The  carnage  occasioned  by  the  wars  of  Julius  Caesai 
has  been  usually  estimated  at  two  millions  of  men. 

Notp  (e.'i  Or  learn  llie  fate  that  Ijleedii.?  thoiisanls  bnre, 

Marcd'd  by  ttieii  Charles  lo  Dneiper's  s"anipy  tbora. 

In  this  e.xlremity,  (says  the  biographer  of  Charles 
ill.  of  Sweden,  speaking  of  his  military  exploits  be- 

63 


64  NOTES    TO    PLEASURES    OF    HOPE. 

fore  the  battle  of  Piiltowa,)  the  memorable  winter  of 
1700,  which  was  still  more  renMrkable  in  that  part  ot 
Europe  than  in  France,  destroyed  numbers  of  his 
troops  :  for  Charles  resalved  to  brave  the  seasons  as 
he  had  done  his  enemies,  and  ventured  to  make 
Ion??  marches  durin?  this  mortal  cold.  It  was  in 
one  of  these  marches  that  two  thousand  men  fell 
down  dead  with  cold,  before  his  eyes. 
Nnle  (/.)   As  oa  lona's  height. 

The  natives  of  the  island  of  lona  have  an  opinion, 
that  on  certain  evenings  every  year,  the  tuflary 
saint  Coluniba  is  seen  on  the  top  of  the  church 
spires,  counting  the  surrounding  islands,  to  see  that 
they  have  not  been  sunk  by  the  power  of  witchcraft. 

Note  (J.)  And  part. lite  Ajut,— never  to  return! 

See  the  history  of  Ajut  and  Anningait,  in  the 
Rambler, 


SifO    OP    PLE.19rRES    OF   HOI». 


RDGEKFrS 
PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY 


Dolce  >.:miLr, 

Colle,  che  i.ii  pincesti, 

Ov'  aiicor  per  usanza  Amor  mi  mens 5 
fc-'t!  rio^nosfo  in  vai  I'ueate  formCj  . 
Hitij,  lUESO,  ill  me.  


ANALYSIS  OF  PART  f. 


The  Poem  begins  with  tne  aescription  of  an  obscure 
tiliage,  and  of  the  pleasing  melancholy  which  it  excites 
on  being  revisited  after  a  long  absence.  This  mixed 
sensatiori  is  an  elT;ct  of  tb  >  Memory.  From. an  effect 
we  naturally  ascend  to  the  cause  ;  and  the  subject 
proposed,  is  then  unfolded  with  an  investigation  of 
the  nature  and  leridiiig  principles  of  this  faculty. 

It  is  evident  that  our  ideas  flow  in  continual  succes- 
Bion,  and  introduce  each  other  with  a  certain  degree 
of  regularity.  They  are  sometimes  excited  by  sensi- 
ble objects,  and  sometimes  by  an  internal  operation 
of  the  mind.  Of  th.' foi  uK^r  specis^s  is  most  probabl-y 
the  memory  of  brutes  ;  and  its  many  sources  of  plea- 
sure to  them,  as  well  as  to  us,  are  considered  in  the 
first  jxart.  The  latter  is  the  most  perfect  degree  of 
memory,  and  forms  the  subject  of  the  second. 

When  ideas  hnve  any  relation  whatever  they  are 
attractive  of  each  other  i"  the  mind  ;  and  the  percep- 
tion of  any  object  nHii;,.illy  leads  to  the  idea  of 
another,  which  was  connected  with  it  either  in  time 
or  place,  or  which  can  he  compared  or  contrasted 
with  it.  Hence  arises  our  attachment  to  inanimate 
objects;  hence  also,  in  some  decree,  the  love  of  our 
country,  and  the  emotion  with  which  we  contemplate 

67 


158  AWALTSrs. 

the  celebrated  scenes  of  antiqiiiTy.  Hfliice  j  picttrg 
directs  our  thnushts  to  the  original ;  and,  as  cold  and 
darkness  suggest  forcibly  the  ideas  of  heat  and  li^ut, 
he,  who  feels  the  infirmities  of  age,  dwells  most  ou 
whatever  reminds  him  of  the  vigour  and  vivacity  ol 
his  youth. 

The  associating  principle,  as  here  e«nployed,  is  no 
less  conducive  to  virtue  then  to  happiness  ;  and,  as 
such,  it  frequently  discovers  itself  in  the  niosttMaiul- 
tuous  scenes  oflifs.  It  addresses  our 'finer  feelings, 
and  gives  exercise  to  every  mild  and  generous  ptopen- 
sity. 

Not  confined  to  man,  it  extends  through  all  aaima- 
ted  nature;  and  its  eifects  ar*r  peculiarly  striking  ia 
tbe  doiue»tic  tribes 


THZ 

PLEA.SURES  OF  MEMORY. 

PART  1. 

Twilight's  soft  dews  steal  o'er  the  village' 
green, 
With  magic  tints  to  harmonize  the  scene. 
Still'd  is  the  hum  that  through  the  hamlet  broKe 
When  round  liie  ruins  ol' their  ancient  oak 
The  peasants  flock' d  to  hear  the  minstrel  play 
And  games  and  carols  closed  the  busy  day. 
Her  wheel  at  re=:t.  th^  matron  thrill?  no  more 
With  treasured  tales,  and  legendary  lore. 
All,  all  are  fled  ;  nor  mirth  nor  music  flows 
To  chase  the  dreams  of  innocent  repose. 
All,  all  are  fled  ;  yet  still  I  linger  here  I 
What  secret  charms  this  silent  spot  endear ! 

Mark  yon  old  Mansion  frowning  through  the 

trees, 

Whose  hollow  turret  wooes  the  whistling  breeze. 

That  casement  arch  d  with  ivy's  brownestshade, 

first  to  these  eyes  the  light  of  heaven  convey'd 


J) 


70  RO&ERS  S 

The  iiioulderiiig  gateway  slrews  he  grass  grown 

court, 
Once  the  cahn  §ceae  o:  inaiiy  a  simple  sport; 
When  nature  pleased,  for  life  itselt  was  new 
A-iid  the  heart  promised  what  the  fancy  drew. 

See,  through  the  fractured  pediment  reveal'd, 
Where  moss  inlays  the  rudely-sculptured  shield, 
The  martin's  old,  hereditary  nest : 
Long  may  the  ruin  spare  its  hallow' d  guest ! 

As  jars  the  hinge,  what  sullen  echoes  call  I 
Oh  haste,  unfold  the  hospitable  hall  I 
That  hall,  where  once,  in  antiquated  state, 
The  chair  of  justice  held  the  grave  debate. 

Now  stain' d  with  dews,  with  cobwebs  darkJj 

hung, 
Oft  has  its  f  oof  with  peals  of  rapture  rung ; 
When  round  yon  ample  board,  in  due  degree, 
We  sweeten' d  every  meal  with  social  glee. 
The  heart's  light   laugh    pursued   the    cu-cling 

jest ; 
And  all  was- sunshine  m  each  little  breast. 
*Twas  there  we  chased  the  slipper  by  the  sound  ; 
And  turn'd  the  bhndibld  hero  njund  and  round. 
Twas  here,  at  eve,  we  forni'd  our  fairy  ring ; 
And  Fancy  flutter' d  on  her  wildest  wing. 
Giants  and  genii  chain' d  each  wondering  ear  ; 
A.nd  orphan-sorrows  drew  the  ready  tear. 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  71 

Oft  with  the  babe  we  w,\nder'd  in  the  wood 
Or  view'd  the  forest-feats  of  Robiti  Hood : 
Oft  fancy-led,  at  midnight's  fearful  hour, 
With  startHng  ptep  we  scaled  the  lonely  tower; 
O'er  infant  innocence  to  hang  and  weep, 
Murder'd  by  ruffian  hands,  when  smihng  in  its 
sleep. 

Ye  Household  Deities  !  whose  guardian  eye 
Mariv'd   each  pure  thought,    ere  register'd  on 

high; 
Still,  still  ye  walk  the  consecrated  ground, 
And  breathe  the  soul  of  Inspiration  round. 

As  o'er  the  dusky  furniture  I  bend 
Each  chair  awakes  the  feehngs  of  a  friend. 
The  storied  arras,  source  of  fond  delight, 
With  old  achievement  charms  the  wilder'd  sight* 
And  still,  with  Heraldry's  rich  hues  imprest, 
On  the  dim  window  glows  the  pictured  crest. 
The  screen  unfolds  its  many-colour'd  chart, 
The  clock  siill  points  its  moral  to  the  heart. 
That  faithful  monitor  'twas  heaven  to  hear, 
When  soft  it  spoke  a  promised  pleasure  near ; 
And  has  its  sober  hand,  its  simple  chime. 
Forgot  to  trace  the  feather' d  feet  of  Time  ? 
That    massive    beam,    with    curious    carvingt 

wrought, 
Whence  the  caged  linnet  soothed  my  peneiv* 

thought ! 


72  ROGERS  S 

Those  muskets,  cased  with  vene ruble  rust. 
Those  once-loved  forms,  still  breathing  through 

their  dust, 
Still,  from  the  frame  in  mould  gigantic  cast, 
Starting  to  Ufe — all  whisper  of  the  Past ! 

As  through  the  garden's  desert  paths  Ir:ve, 
What  fond  illusions  swarm  in  every  grove  . 
How  oft,  when  purple  evening  tinged  the  west, 
We  watch'd  the  emmet  to  her  grainy  nest  ; 
Welcomed  the  wild-bee  home  on  weary  wing, 
Laden  \sath  sweets,  the  choicest  of  the  spring! 
How    oft   inscribed,    with    Friendship's  votive 

rhyme, 
The  bark  now  silver'd  by  the  touch  of  Time  ; 
Soar'd  m  the  swing,  half  pleased  and  half  afraid, 
Through  sister  elms  that  waved  their  summer- 
shade  ; 
Or  strew'd  with  crumbs  yon  root-inwoven  seat. 
To  lure  the  redbreast  from  his  lone  retreat ! 

Childhood's  loved  group  revisits  every  scene, 
The  tangled  wood- walk,  aiid  ib.e  tufted  green! 
Indulgent  Memoky  wakes,  and  lo,  they  hve  ! 
Clothed  with  iiir  softer  hues  than  Light  can  give. 
Thou    first    best    fri'  nd    that    Heaven    assigns 

below, 
To  soothe  and  sweeten  all  the  cares  we  know; 
Whose  glad  suggestions  still  each  vain  alarm, 
When  nature  fades,  and  life  forgets  to  charin  ; 


PLEASURES  OF  >;emory.  73 

Tnee  wouid  the  Muse  invoke  ! — to  thee  belong 
The  sige's  precept,  and  the  poet's  song. 
What  soften'd  views  thy  magic  glass  reveals, 
When  o'er  the  landscape  Time's  meek  t  viHghl 

steals  ! 
As  when  in  ocean  sinks  the  orb  of  day, 
Long  on  the  wave  reflected  lustres  play  ; 
Thy  temper'd  gleams  of  happiness  resign' d, 
Glance  on  the  darken'd  mirror  of  the  mind. 

The    School's    lone   porch,  with    reverend 
mosses  gray. 
Just  tell  the  pensive  pilgrim  where  it  lay. 
Mute  is  the  bell  that  rung  at  peep  of  dawn, 
Quickening  my  truant-feet  across  the  lawn  ; 
Unheard  the  shout  that  rent  the  noontide  air, 
When  the  slow  dial  gave  a  pause  to  care. 
Up  springs,  at  every  step,  to  claim  a  tear, 
Some  little  friendship  form'd  and  cherish'd  here  ; 
And  not  the  lightest  leaf,  but  trembling  teems 
With  golden  visions,  and  romantic  dreams! 

Down  oy  yon  hazel  copse,  at  evening,  blazed 
The  Gipsy's  fagot — there  we  stood  and  gazed  ; 
Gazed  on  her  sun -burnt  face  with  silent  awe, 
Her  tatter'd  mantle,  and  her  hood  of  straw; 
[ler  moving  Hps,  her  caldron  ^'imming  o'er  ; 
The  drowsy  brood  that  on  he/  oack  she  bore, 
tmps,  in  the  barn  with  mousing  owlet  bred, 
From  rifled  roost  at  nightly  revel  fed  ; 


Whose  dark  eyes  flash'd  throng ti  ocks  of  black 

est  shade, 
When    in    the   bieeze    the   distant    %vatch-dog 

bay'd  :  — 
And  heioes  fled  the  Sibyl's  mutter' 1  call. 
Whose  elfin  prowess  scaled  thu  orchard-waif. 
As  o'er  my  palm  the  silver  piece  she  drew, 
And    traced   the    line    of   life   with    searching 

view, 
How  throbb'd  my  fluttering  pulse  with  hopes 

and  fears, 
To  learn  the  colour  of  my  future  years! 

Ah,  then,   what  honest   triumph  flush' d  my 
breast ; 
This  truth   once  known  —  To  bless     is   to  b« 

blest ! 
We  led  the  bending  beggar  on  his  way, 
(Bare  were  his  feel,  his  tresses  silver-gray,) 
Soothed  the  keen  pangs  his  aged  spirit  felt, 
And  on  his  tale  with  mute  attention  dwelt. 
As  in  his  scrip  we  dropt  our  httle  store. 
And  sigh'd  to  think  that  little  was  no  more. 
He  breathed  his  prayer,  "  Long  may  such  good- 
ness live  !" 
Twas  all  he  gave,  'twas  all  he  had  to  give. 
Angels,   when  Mercy's  mandate  wing'd  theil 

flight. 
Had  elopt  to  dwell  with  p'easure  ouOe  sight. 


PLEASURES    (.*•    MEMOilY.  /D 

But  iicirk  1  ihro'jgh  those  old  firs,  with  sullen 

swell, 
Thkj   church-clock  strikes !   ye.  tender  s^;eneR, 

farewell  I 
It  calls  me  hence,  beneath  their  shade,  to  trace 
The  few  fond  hues  that  Time  may  soon  efface 

On  yon  gray  stone,    that  fronts  the  chancel- 
door. 
Worn  smooth  by  busy  feet  now  seen  no  more, 
Each  eve  we  shot  the  marble  through  the  ring, 
When   the  heart  danced,   and   life   was  in  ita 

spring ; 
Alas  1  unconscious  of  the  kindred  earth. 
That  faintly  echo'd  to  the  voice  of  mirth. 

The  glow-worm  loves  her  emerald -light  to 
shed, 
Where  now  the  sexton  rests  his  hoary  head. 
Oft,    as   he   turn'd   the    greensward    with    his 

spade 
He  lectured  every  youth  that  round  himplay'd; 
And  calmly  pointing  where  our  fathers  lay, 
Roused  us  to  rival  each,  the  hero  of  his  day. 

Hush,  ye  fond  flutterings,  hush  !  while  here 
alone 
I  search  the  records  of  each  mouldering  stone. 
Guides  of  my  Ufe  !  Instructors  of  my  youth  ! 
Who  first  unveil'd  the  hallow'd  form  of  Truth 


76  ROfiEKs'S 

VVliose  eiery  word  eniighten'd  and  endear'd 
In  age  beloved,  in  poverty  revered  ; 
In  Friendsnip's  silent  register  ye  live. 
Nor  ask  the  vain  memorial  Art  can  give. 

But  when  the  sons  of  peace,  of  plea -sure  sleep 
When  only  Sorrow  wakes,  and  wakes  to  weep 
What  spells  entrance  my  visionary  mind 
With  sighs  so  sweet,  with  transports  so  refined 

Ethereal  Power  I  who  at  the  noon  of  night 
Recall' st  the  far-fled  spirit  of  delight ; 
From  whom  that  musing,  melancholy  mood 
Which  charms  the  wise,  and  elevates  the  good 
Blest  jMemory,    hail !    Oh   grant    the   gratefu 

Muse. 
Her  pencil  dipt  in  Nature's  living  hues, 
To  pass  the  clouds  that  round  thy  empire  roll, 
And  trace  its  airy  precincts  in  the  soul. 

Lull'd  in  the  countless  chambers  of  the  brain. 
Our  thoughts  are  link'd  by  many  a  hidden  chain. 
Awake  but  one,  and  lo,  what  myriads  rise  !* 
Each  stamps  its  image  as  the  oiher  flies. 
Each,  as  the  various  avenues  of  sense 
Delight  or  sorrow  to  the  soul  dispense, 


*  Namqiie  illic  posiiit  solium,  et  sun  templa  sacravlt 
Mens  ai.imi :  hanr.  circuin  coeunt,  densoque  feruntm 
Agmine  notitjae,  siinulacraque  tenuia  rerum. 


PIEASFKES    OF   MEMORY.  77 

Brightens  or  fades  ;  yet  all,  with  magic  art. 
Control  the  latent  tibres  of  the  heart. 
Asstiifjious  rRosrECo's  mysterious  spell 
Drew  every  sii' ject-spirit  to  his  cell; 
Each  at  thy  call,  advances  or  retires, 
As  judgment  dictates,  or  the  scene  inspires. 
Each  thri!':^:  ilie  seat  of  sense,  that  sacred  source 
Whence  the  fine  nerves  direct  their  mazy  course^ 
And  ihroug'n  tlie  frame  invisibly  convey 
The  subtle,  quick  vibrations  as  they  play  ; 
Man's  little  universe  at  once  o'ercast, 
At  once  illumined  whe  i  the  cloud  is  past. 

Survey  the  globe,  each  ruder  realm  explore , 
From  Reason's  fair.test  ray  to  Ne\vtOi\  soar. 
What  diti'erent  spheres  tu  human  bhss  assign'd  , 
What  slow  gradations  in  the  scale  of  mind  ! 
Yet  mark  in  each  these  mystic  wonders  wrought; 
Oh  mark  the  sleepless  energies  of  thought ! 

The  adventurous  boy,  that  asks  his  little  share, 
And  hies  from  home  with  many  a  gossip's  prayer, 
Turns  on  the  neighbuurmgliili,  once  moretosee 
The  dear  abode  of  peace  and  p4-ivacy  ; 
And  as  he  turns,  the  thatch  among  the  trees, 
The  smoke's  blue  wreaths  ascending  with  the 

breeze. 
The  village-common  spotted  white  with  sheep, 
The  church-yard  yews  round  which  his  fathers 
fileet'  : 


78  ROGERS  S 

A!',  rouse  Reflection's  sadly-pleasing  train. 
And  oft  he  looks  and  weeps,  and  looks  again. 

feo,  when  the  mild  TrpiA  dared  explore 
Arts  yet  untaught,  and  worlds  unknown  before, 
And,  with  the  sons  of  Science,  woo'd  the  gale 
That,  rising,  swnll'd  their  strange  expanse  of  sail: 
So,  when  he  breathed  his  firm  yet  iond  adieu, 
Borne  from  his  leafy  hut,  his  carved  canoe. 
And  all  his  soul  best  loved — such  tears  he  shed, 
While  each  soft  scene  of  summer-beauty  fled. 
Long  o'er  the  wave  a  wistful  look  he  cast, 
Long  watch' d   the  streaming  signal   from  the 

mast. 
Till  twihght's  dewy  tints  deceived  his  eye, 
And  fairy-forests  fringed  the  evemng-sky. 

So  Scotia's  Queen,  as  slowly  dawn'd  the  day, 
Rose  on  her  couch,  and  gazed  her  soul  away. 
Her  eyes  had  bless' d  the  beacon's  gliminering 

height. 
That  faintly  tipt  the  feathery  surge  with  light  ; 
But  now  the  morn  with  orient  hues  portray' d 
Each  castle  clifl',  and  brown  monastic  shade  : 
All  touch'd  the  talisman's  resistless  spring, 
And  lo,  w^hat  busv  tribes  were  instant  on  the 


Thus  kindred  objects  kindred  thoughts  inspire. 
As  summer    1  ^uds  flash  forth  electric  fire. 


PLEASTTRKS    OF    ME:M0RY.  i3 

And  hence  this  spot  gives  back  the  joys  of  youth, 
Warm  as  the  life,  and  with  the  mirror's  truth. 
Hence  home-feh  pleasure  prompts  the  Patriot's 

sigh  ; 
This   nakes  liim  wish  to  live,  and  dare  to  die 
For  tnis  young  FoscAr.i,  whose  hapless  fate 
Venice  should  'lush  to  hear  the  Muse  relate. 
When  exile  wore  his  blooming  years  away, 
To  sorrow's  long  soliloquies  a  prey, 
When  reason,  justice,  vainly  urged  his  cause, 
For  this  he  roused  her  sanguinary  laws ; 
Glad  to  return,  though  Hope  could  grant   no 

more. 
And  chains  and  torture  hail'd  him  to  the  shore. 

And  hence  the  charm  historic  scenes  impart ; 
Hence  Tiber  awes,  and  Avon  melts  the  heart. 
Aerial  forms  in  Tempo's  classic  vale, 
Glance  through  the  gloom,  and  whisper  in  tha 

gale; 
In  wild  Vaucluse  with  love  and  Laura  dwell, 
And  watch  and  weep  in  Eloisa's  cell. 
"I'was  ever  thus.      Young  AmmOxV,  when  he 

sought . 
Where  Ilium  stood,  and  where  Pelfdes  fought, 
Sate  at  the  helm  himself.     No  meaner  hand 
Steer'd  through  the  waves  ;  and  when  he  struck 

the  land, 
Such  in  his  soul  the  ardour  to  explore, 
PELiDES-hke,  he  leap'd  the  first  ashore; 


80  KOGERS'S 

'Twds  ever  thus.     As  now  at  Virg.l's  tomb 
We  bless  the  shade,  and  bid  the  verdure  bloom: 
So  TrLLY  paused,  anwd  the  wrecks  of  Time, 
On  the  rude  stone  to  trace  the  truth  sublime; 
When  at  his  feet,  in  honour' d  dust  disclosed, 
The  immortal  Sage  of  Syracuse  reposed. 
And  as  he  lon^  in  sweet  delusion  hung, 
Where  once  a  Plato  taught,  a  Pixdar  sung  ; 
Who  now  but  meets  him  musing,  when  he  roves 
His  ruin'd  Tusculan's  romantic  groves  ! 
In  Rome's  great  forum,  who  but  hears  him  roll 
His  moral  thunders  o'er  the  subject  soul  I 

And  hence  that  calm  dehght  the  portrait  gives : 
We  gaze  on  every  feature  till  it  lives  ! 
Still  the  fond  lover  sees  the  absent  maid ; 
And  the  lost  friend  still  lingers  in  the  shade  ! 
Say  why  the  pensive  widow  loves  to  weep, 
When  on  her  knee  she  rocks  her  babe  to  sleep. 
Tremblingly  still,  she  lifts  his  veil  to  trace 
The  father's  features  in  his  infant  face. 
The  hoary  grandsire  smiles  the  hour  away, 
Won  by  the  raptures  of  a  game  at  play ; 
He  bends  to  meet  each  artless  burst  of  joy, 
Forgets  his  age,  and  acts  again  the  boy. 

What  though  the  iron  school  of  War  ertjse 
Each  milder  virtue,  and  each  softer  grace; 
What  though  the  fiend's  torpedo-touch  arrest 
Eac^  gentler  finer  impulse  of  thp  breast : 


PLEASURES    JF    MEMORY.  81 

Still  shall  this  aciive  principle  preside, 
And  wake  the  tear  to  Pity's  self  denied. 
The  intrepid  Swiss,  who  guiirdsa  foreign  shore, 
Condemird  toclinibhis  mountain-chffs  no  more, 
If  chance  lie  hears  the  sonij  so  sweetly  wild. 
Which  on  those  chffs  his  infant  Hours  beguiled, 
Melts  at  the  long-lost  scenes  that  round  him  rise, 
And  sinks  a  martyr  to  repentant  sighs. 

Ask  not  if  courts  or  camps  dissolve  the  charm: 

Say  why  Vespasian  loved  his  Sabine  farm ; 

Why  great  Navarre,  when  France  and  free- 
dom bled, 

Sought  the  lone  limits  of  a  forest-shed. 

When  Diocletian's  self-corrected  mind 

The  imperial  fasces  of  a  world  resign'd, 

Say  why  we  trace  the  labours  of  his  spade, 

In  calm  Solona's  philosophic  shade. 

Say,  when  contentious  Charles  renounced  a 
throne. 

To  muse  wdth  monks  unletter'd  and  unknown; 

What  from  his  soul  the  parting  tribute  drew  ? 

What  claim'd  the  sorrows  of  a  last  adieu  ? 

The  still  retreats  that  soothed  his  tranquil  breast 

Ere  grandeur  dazzled,  and  its  cares  oppress'd. 

Undamp'd  by  time,  the  generous  Instinct  glowa 
Far  as  Angola's  sands,  as  Zembla's  snows  ; 
J  lows  in  the  tiger's  den,  the  serpent's  nest, 
On  every  form  of  varied  life  imprest 


jTlifi  social  Tibes  its  choi^^est  infl  lonce  hail  :— 
And  when  the  drum  lieats  briskly  in  the  gale, 
The  war-worn  courser  charges  at  the  sound, 
And    with    young    vigour  wheels   the  pastur« 
round. 

Oft  has  the  aged  tenant  of  the  vale 
Lean'd  on  his  staff  to  lengthen  out  the  tale  ; 
Oft  have  his  lips  the  grateful  trilnite  breathed, 
From  sire  to  son  with  pious  zeal  bequeathed. 
When  o'er  the  blasted  heath  the  day  declined, 
And  on  the  scathed  oak  warr'd  the  winter-wind; 
When  not  a  distant  taper's  twinkling  ray 
Gleam' d  o'er  the  furze  to  light  him  on  his  way  ; 
When  not  a  sheep-bell  soothed  his  listening  ear, 
And  the  big  rain-drops  told  the  tempest  near; 
Then  did  his  horse  the  homeward  track  descry, 
The  track  that  shunn'd  his  sad,  enquiring  eye, 
And  wii^  each  wavering  purpose  to  relent, 
With  warmth  so  mild,  so  gently  violent, 
That  his  charm' d  hand  the  careless  rein  resign'd 
And  doubts  and  terrors  vanish' d  from  his  mind 

Recall  the  traveller,  whose  alter'd  form 
Has  borne  the  buffet  of  the  mountain-storm  ! 
And  who  will  first  his  fond  impatience  meet? 
His  faithful  dog's  already  at  his  feet  I 
Yes.  though  the  porter  spurn  him  from  the  door. 
Though  all  that  knew  him,  know  his  face  nc 
mere 


pleastjtvP:s  of  memory.  83 

fits  faitiiful  dog  shall  tell  his  joy  to  each, 
With  that  mute  eloquence  wh'ch  passes  speech. 
And  see,  the  n.iaster  "Dut  returns  to  die  ! 
Yet  who  shall  !;id  the  warchtul  servant  ^.y  ? 
The  blasts  of  heaven,  the  drenchir^  dews  of 

earth, 
The  wanton  insults  of  unleehng  mirth, 
These,    when    to  guard    Misfortune's    sacred 

gravp, 
Will  firm  Fidelity  exult  to  brave. 

Led  by  what  chart,  transports  the  timid  dove 
The  wreaths  of  conquest,  or  the  vows  of  love  ? 
Say,  through  the  clouds  what  compass  points 

her  flight  ? 
Monarchs  have  gazed,  and  nations  bless'd  the 

sight. 
Pile  rocks  on  rocks,  bid  woods  and  mountains 

rise, 
Eclipse  her  native  shades,  her  native  skies  : — 
'Tis  vain  !  through  Ether's  pathless  wilds  she 

goes, 
And  lights  at  last  where  all  her  cares  repose. 

Sweet  bird!   thy  truth  shall  Harlem's  walli 
attest, 
And  unboni  ages  consecrate  thy  nest. 
When  with  the  silent  energy  of  grief, 
With  looks  that  ask'd,  yet  dured  not  hope  re 
lief. 


84         Rogers's  pleasures  it  memory. 

Want  with  her  babes  round  generous  Valour 

clung, 
To  wring  the  slow  surrender  from  his  tongue, 
'Twas  thine  to  aniuiaie  her  closing  eye  ; 
Alas  !  'twas  i\  ne  perchance  the  first  to  die, 
Crush' d  by  he    nieagre  hand,  when  welcomed 

from  th  J  sky. 

Hark !  the  oee  winds  her  small  but  mellow 
horn, 
Bhthe  to  salute  the  sunny  smile  of  mom. 
O'er  thymy  downs  she  bends  her  busy  course, 
And  many  a  stream  allures  her  to  hs  source. 
'Tisnoon.  'tis  night.  That  eye  so  finelj' wrought 
Beyond  the  search  of  sense,  the  soar  of  thought. 
Now  vainly  asks  the  scenes  she  left  behind ; 
Its  orb  so  full,  its  vision  so  confined! 
Who  guides  the  patient  pilgrim  to  her  cell  ? 
*Vho  bids  her  soul  with  conscious  triumph  swell  ? 
♦Vith  conscious  truth  retrace  the  mazy  clue 
Of  summer-scents,  that  charm'd  her  as  she  flew? 
Hail  Memory,  hail  !  thy  universal  reign 
Guards  the  \eitst  link  of  Being's  glorious  chain. 


NOTES 

TO 

PLEASURES    OF   MEMORY. 

PART  I. 


P.  72, 1.8. 
How  oft,  when  purple  evening  tinged  the  west. 

Virgil,  in  one  of  his  Eclogues,  describes  a  romantic 
attachment  as  conceived  in  such  circumstances  ;  and 
the  description  is  so  true  to  nature,  that  we  must 
Burely  be  indebted  for  it  to  some  early  recollection. 
"You  were  little  when  I  first  saw  you.  You  were 
v'ith  your  mother  gathering  fruii  in  our  orchard,  and 
I  was  your  guide.  I  wasjust  entering  my  thirteenth 
year,  and  just  able  to  reach  the  boughs  from  the 
ground." 

So  also  Zappi,  an  Italian  Poet  of  the  last  century. 
"When  I  used  to  measure  myself  with  my  goat,  and 
my  goat  was  the  tallest,  even  then  I  loved  Clori." 

P.  73, 1.17. 

Up  springs,  at  every  step,  tochim  a  tear. 

I  came  to  fie  place  i)f  my  birth,  and  cried,  "The 
friends  of  mj  Youth,  where  are  they  ?" — Andanechr 
answered,  "  Where  are  they  1" — From  an  ^^abic  MS 

85 


86  NOTES    TO 

P.  76, 1.20. 
■  Awakp  !iu'  (iiif..  anJ  in,  \v)ia:  n;yr:2j<  i  je  ! 

When  a  tiaveller,  who  w;is  surveying  the  ruins  of 
Rome,  expresseil  a  desire  to  possess  some  relic  of  its 
Ancient  grrindeur,  Poussin,  who  attended  him, 
Btooped  down,  and  gatherinor  up  a  handful  of  earth 
shining  with  small  grains  of  porphyry,  "Take  this 
home,"  said  he,  "  for  your  cabinet ;  and  say  boldly, 
Questa  e  Roma  Jlnlica.''^ 

P.  77, 1.27. 
The  church-yard  yews  round  which  his  filhers  sleep. 

Every  man  like  Gulliver  in  Lilliput,  is  fastened  to 
some  spot  of  earth,  by  the  thousand  small  threads 
which  habit  and  association  are  continually  stealing 
over  him  Of  these,  perhaps,  one  of  the  strongest  ia 
here  alluded  to. 

When  the  Canadian  Indians  were  once  solicited  to 
emigrate,  "  What !"  they  replied,  "shall  we  say  to 
the  bones  of  our  fathers.  Arise,  and  go  with  us  mto  a 
foreign  land"?" 

P.  78, 1.7. 

So,  when  he  hreathal  liis  firm  yet  fond  adieu. 

See  Cook's  first  voyage,  book  i.  chap.  16. 

Another  very  alfecting  instance  of  local  attachment 
is  related  of  his  fellow-countryman  Potaveri,  who 
came  to  Europe  with  M.  de  Bougainvil'?.— See //C« 
Jardins,  chant,  ii. 

P.  78, 1.16. 

So  Sci'ia's  Queen.  &c. 

Ellfc  se  leve  sur  son  lict,  etse  met  a  contemplcr  ll 
Frk.aco  enco'-e,  et  tant  qu'ellc  peul. — Brantome. 


PLEASL'RES    OF    MEMORY.  87 

P.  78, 1.  26. 

This  (fi  jJieJ  objects  kinJred  thoughts  iospiie. 

To  an  accicienlal  association  may  be  ascribed  some 
of  the  noblesj  eflurt  of  human  genius.  The  Historian 
ofthe  Decline  ami  Fall  ofthe  Rontan  Empire  first  con- 
ceived his  liesign  among  the  ruins  of  the  Capitol;  and 
to  the  tones  of  a  Welsh  harp  are  we  indebted  for  the 
BurdofGray. 

P.  79, 1.. -5. 
HeriCf  home  felt  pleasure,  &c. 

Who  can  enough  admire  the  afffctionate  attachment 
of  Plutarch,  who  thus  concludes  his  enumeration  of 
the  advantages  of  a  great  (ity  to  men  of  letters'?  "As 
to  myself,  I  live  in  a  little  town  ;  and  1  choose  to  live 
there,  lest  it  should  become  still  less."— ^U.  Demosth. 

P.79, 1.  6. 

For  this  young  foscari,  &c. 

He  was  suspected  of  murder,  and  at  Venice  suspi- 
cion was  good  evidence.  iSeiiher  the  interefit  o!  the 
Doge,  his  father,  nor  tlie  intrepidity  of  conscious  inno- 
cence, which  he  o.xhil>ited  in  th.^  dungeon  and  on  t5'« 
rack,  could  procure  his  acquittal.  He  was  Larishe  i 
to  the  island  of  Candia  toi  i:le. 

But  here  his  resolution  failed  him.  At  such  a  dis> 
tance  from  home  he  could  not  live  ;  and,  as  it  was  a 
criminal  offence  to  solicit  the  intercession  of  any 
foreign  prince,  in  a  fit  of  despair  he  addressed  a  lettei 
to  the  Duke  of  Milan,  and  intrusted  it  to  a  wretch 
whose  perfidy,  he  knew,  would  occasion  his  beinfc 
.emandcd  a  prisoner  to  Vetuce. 
P.  79, 1.  15. 
And  hence  the  charm  historic  scenes  im^Arr. 

Whatever  wiihdraive  us   from  the  power  of  aui 


88  >roTES   TO 

senseri ;  whatever  :i;.ikes  the  past,  the  distant,  or  the 
future,  predouilnate  over  the  present,  advances  us  in 
the  dignity  nfihinkins  beings.  Far  from  nie  and  from 
my  friends  be  such  frigid  philosophy  as  may  conduct  us 
indiiferent  and  unmoved  over  any  ground  which  has 
been  digrified  by  wisdom,  bravery,  or  virtue.  That 
man  is  little  to  be  envied,  whose  patriotism  would  not 
gain  force  upon  the  plain  of  J/ara^Aon,  or  whose  piety 
would  not  grow  warmer  among  the  ruins  of  lona.-' 
Johnson. 

P.  79,1.  21. 
And  watch  and  weep  in  Eloisa's  cell. 

The  Paraclete,  founded  by  Abelard,in  Champagne. 

P.  79,1  22. 

Twas  ever  thus.     Yoan<  Ammon.  when  he  sought. 

Alexander,  when  he  crossed  the  Hellespont,  was  in 
the  twenty-second  year  of  his  age  ;  and  with  what 
feelings  must  the  Scholar  of  Aristotle  have  approached 
the  ground  described  by  Homer  in  that  poem  which 
had  been  his  delight  from  his  childhood,  and  w^hich 
records  the  achievements  of  Him  from  whom  he 
claimed  his  descent ! 

It  was  his  fancy,  if  we  may  believe  tradition,  to 
take  the  tiller  from  Menostius,  and  be  himself  the 
steersman  during  the  passage.  It  was  his  fancy  also 
to  be  the  Iirst  to  land,  and  to  land  full -armed.— ^r- 
rian^t  i-  H- 

P.  80, 1.1. 
As  now  at  Vir^il't  tomb. 

Vows  and  pilgrimages  are  not  peculiar  to  the  wM- 
gious  enthusiast.    Silius  Italicus  performed  annual 


PLEASrRKd    OF    MEMORY.  89 

ceremonies  on  the  mountain  of  Posilipo;  and  it  waa 
lliere  that  Boccaccio,  quasi  da  un  divino  estro  inspirator 
resolved  to  dedicate  his  life  to  the  Muses. 
P.  80, 1.3. 

So  Tully  pausfi,  .nmij  ihe  wrecks  n(  time. 

When  Cicero  \vasqua?stor  in  Sicily,  he  discovered 
the  tomb  of  Archimedes  by  its  mathematical  inscrip- 
tion.—  Tusc.  QucEst.  V.  3. 

P.  80, 1.17. 

Say  why  Ihe  pensive  widow  loves  to  weep. 

The  influence  of  the  associating  principle  is  finely  ex- 
emplified in  the  faithful  Penelope,  when  she  shed 
tears  over  the  bow  of  Ulysses. —  Od.  xxi.55. 

P.  81, 1.5. 

If  chance  he  hears  Ihe  stin?  so  sweetly  wild. 

The  celebrated  Ranz  des  Vaches  ;  cet  air  si  cheri 
des  Suisses  qu'il  fut  defendu  sous  peine  de  niort  de  la 
jouer  dans  leurs  troupes,  parce  qui  I'fuisoit  fondre 
en  larmes,  deserter  ou  mourir  ceux  qui  I'entendoient, 
tant  Jl  excitoit  en  eux  I'ardent  desir  de  revoir  leur 
pays. — Rousseau. 

Themaladie  de  pays  is  as  old  as  the  human  hea^t 
Juvenal's  little  cup-bearer 

Suspirat  lonKO  non  visani  tempore  matreai 
Et  casulam,  ef  iiotos  trisfis  desiderat  hoedos. 

And  the  Argive,  in  the  heat  of  battle, 

Dulces  moriens  reminiscitur  Argos. 

P.  81, 1.10. 

Say  why  Vespasian  loved  his  Sabine  farm. 

Thii  emperor,  according  to  Suetonius,  constantly 


90  NOTES    TC 

passed  the  summer  in  a  small  villu  near  R^  a'e,v\tere 
he  was  born,  and  to  which  he  would  never  add  any 
embellishment ;  ve  qui-l scilicet  oculorum consueiudini de- 
ytrire-. — Suet,  in  Vit.  V-:sp.  cap.  ii. 

A  similir  instance  occurs  in  the  life  of  the  vene- 
rable Pertinax,as  related  by  J.  Capitolinus.  Postea- 
quam  in  Liguriam  venit,  multis  agris  coemptis,  tabcr- 
nam  paternam,  /nrtnenfe /or/ni  priore,infinitis  asdificiia 
circundedit. — Hist.  Amriist.b^. 

And  it  is  said  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,  that,  when  he 
built  his  magnilicent  palace  on  the  site  of  the  old  family 
chateau  at  Richelieu,  he-  sacrificed  its  symmetry  to 
preserve  the  room  in  which  he  was  bom.— .Ve7H.  dt 
Mile.  deJMontpensier,  i.'il. 

An  attachment  of  this  nature  is  generally  the  cha- 
racteristic of  a  benevolent  mind  ;  and  a  long  acquaint- 
ance with  the  world  cannot  always  extinguish  it. 

"To  a  friend,"  says  John  duke  of  Buckingham,  "I 
will  expose  my  weakness :  1  am  oftener  missing  a 
pretty  sallery  in  the  old  house  I  pulled  down,  than 
pleased  with  asaloon  which  I  built  in  its  stead, though 
a  thousand  times  better  in  all  respects."— See  his 
Letter  to  the  D.  of  Sh. 

This  is  the  language  of  tlie  heart ;  and  will  remind 
the  reader  of  that  good-humoured  remark  in  one  of 
Pope's  letters—"  I  should  hardly  care  to  have  an  old 
post  pulled  up,  that  I  remembered  ever  since  1  was  a 
child." 

The  Author  of  Telemachus  has  illustrated  thig 
subject  with  equal  fancy  and  fet  ling,  ij  the  story  o( 
Alibee,  Penan. 

P  81,1.11. 

Why  ?reat  N.ivaire.  &c 

Tba*  amiable  and  accomplished  monarch,  Henry 


PLEASURE!^    OF    MEMOUY.  9 \ 

the  Fourtli,  of  France,  made  an  excursion  from  hit 
camp,  darin?  the  Ions?  sidge  of  Laon,  to  dine  at  a  h^use 
in  the  forest  of  Folamhray  ;  where  he  had  oiTlen  been 
•■egaled,  when  a  boy,  with  fruit,  milk,  and  new  cheese; 
and  in  revisiting  which  he  promised  himself  great 
pleasure. — Mem  de  Sully. 

P. 81, 1.14. 
Wheu  Diocletian'B self-corrected  miDd 

Diocletian  retired  into  his  native  province,  and  there 
amused  himself  with  buildins,  planting,  and  garden- 
ing. His  answer  to  Ma.ximian  is  deservedly  celebrat- 
ed. "If,"  said  he,  "I  could  show  him  the  cabbages 
which  I  have  planted  with  my  own  hands  at  Salona, 
he  would  no  longer  solicit  me  to  return  to  a  throne." 

P. 81, 1.15. 

Siy,  when  C'.j'ci    iM.s  Claries,  &c. 

When  the  Empernr,  (Miirlcs  the  Fifth  hai  executed 
nis  memorable  resolution,  and  had  set  out  for  the 
monastery  of  Juste,  he  stopt  a  few  days  at  Ghent  to 
indulge  that  tender  and  pleasant  melancholy,  which 
arises  in  the  mind  of  every  man  in  the  decline  of  life, 
on  visiting  the  place  of  his  birth,  and  the  objects  fami- 
liar to  him  in  his  early  youth. 

P. 81, 1.20. 
To  muse  with  monks,  &c 

Monjes  solitaries  del  glorioso  padre  San  GeroniniUi 
says  i?andova 

in  a  corner  of  the  convent-garden  there  is  this 'n- 
scription.  En  esta  santa  casa  de  S.  Geronimo  de 
Juste  se  retiro  a  acabar  tu  vida  Carlos  V.  Empera« 
dor.  <Scc  —Pom. 


92  NOTES    TO    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

P.  82, 1.16. 
Then  did  his  horse  the  homeward  track  descry. 

The  memory  of  the  horse  forms  the  crotind-work 
cf  a  pleasing  little  romance  entitled,  "I.aidu  Pale- 
%-oi  vair."  — Sec  FiMiaur  f/uXII.  Hieclc. 

Ariosto  likewise  introduces  it  in  a  passage  full  of 
ruth  and  nature.  When  Bayardo  meets  Angelica  in 
ae  forest, 

Va  mamsueto  a  la  Donzella, 
Ch  in  Albracca  il  scrvia  gia  di  sua  oiano. — Orlando  Furioio,  i.76. 
P.  83, 1.23 
Sweet  Bird  !  thy  truth  shall  Hariem's  vral's  attest. 

During  the  siege  of  Harlem,  when  that  city  was  re- 
duced to  the  last  extremity,  and  on  the  i)oint  of  open- 
ing its  gates  to  a  base  and  barbarous  enemy,  a  design 
was  formed  to  relieve  it  ;  and  the  intelligence  was 
conveyed  to  the  citizens  by  a  letter  which  was  tied 
under  the  wing  of  a   pigeon. —  Thuanus,  v.  5. 

The  same  messenger  was  employed  at  the  siege  of 
Mutina,  as  we  are  informed  by  the  elder  Pliny. — Hist 
J^Tat.  X.  37. 

P.  84, 1.8. 
Hark  !  the  bee,  &c 

This  little  animal,  from  the  extreme  convexity  of 
her  eye  cannot  sea  many  inches  before  her 


atOGERB'B 
PLEASURES    OF   MEMORY 

Part  m 

Delle  coie  ciutode  e  diapeiisiera.-  Ta-ni. 


A^''^LV..^    3F  PART  11. 


The  Memory  has  hitht  to  acted  only  in  subser- 
rience  to  the  sei.ses,  und  -s  >  far  man  is  not  eminently 
distinguished  from  other  a  limals :  but,  with  respect 
to  man,  she  has  a  higher  province  ;  and  is  often  busily 
employed,  when  excited  by  no  external  cause  what- 
ever. She  preserves,  for  hi3  use,  the  treasures  of  art 
and  science,  history  and  philosophy.  She  colours 
all  the  prospects  of  life  ;  for  we  can  only  anticipate 
the  future  by  concluding  what  is  possible  from 
what  is  past.  On  her  agency  dei)ends  every  effusion 
of  the  Fancy,  who  with  the  boldest  effort  can  only 
compoand  or  transpose,  augment  or  diminish  the  ma- 
terials which  she  has  collected. 

When  the  first  einotion.s  of  des;iair  have  subsided, 
and  sorrow  has  softened  into  nvelancholy,  she  amuses 
with  a  retrospect  of  innocent  pleasures,  and  inspiiea 
that  noble  confidence  which  results  from  the  con- 
sciousness of  having  acted  well.  When  sleep  has 
suspended  the  organs  of  sense  from  their  office,  she 
not  only  supplies  the  mind  with  images,  but  assists  in 
their  combination.  And  even  in  madness  itself,  when 
the  soul  is  resigned  over  to  the  tyranny  ofa  distem- 
pered imagin;'tio:>,  she  revive:)  past  perceptions,  and 

9o 


96  ANALYSIS. 

awakens  (hat  train  of  thought  which  was  formerly 
most  familiar. 

Nor  are  we  pleased  only  with  a  review  of  the 
brighter  passagi-s  of  life.  Events,  the  most  dis- 
tressing in  th  .'ir  immediate  consequences,  are  often 
cherished  in  reniLMnbrance  with  a  degree  of  enthu- 
siasm. 

But  the  world  and  its  occupations  give  a  mechanical 
impulse  to  the  passions,  which  is  not  very  favourable 
to  the  indulgence  of  this  feeling.  It  is  in  a  calm  and 
well-regulated  mind  that  the  Memory  is  most  perfect ; 
and  solitudeis  her  best  sphereof  action.  With  this  sen- 
timent is  introduced  a  Tiile  illustrative  of  herinfluence 
in  solitude,  sickness,  and  sorrow.  And  the  subject 
having  now  been  considered,  so  far  as  it  relates  to 
man  and  the  animal  world,  the  Poem  concludes  with 
a  conjecture  that  superior  beings  are  blest  with  ■ 
nobler  *».verciae  of  this  faculty. 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY, 


PART  TT, 

Sweet  M;i"'  Rv,\vat.ed  liy  ihy  gentle  gale, 
Oft  up  the  stream  of  Time  I  Uirn  my  sail, 
To  view  xhr  fairy  haunts  of  lo"g-!ost  hours. 
Blest  wi.hiaigrcei.er  shades,  lar  licslier  ilowerfti 

Ages  nrid  rlimes remote  to  Thee  impart 
What  ciiiiiinsin  Genius,  and  rehnes  in  Art; 
Thee,  in  whose  hair'  the  keys  of  Science  dwells 
The  pensive  portress  oi  ner  noly  ceil ; 
Whose  constant  vigils  chase  the  chilUng  damp 
Oblivion  steals  upon  her  vestal- lamp. 

They  in  their  glorious  course  the  guides  oi 
Yonrh, 
Whose   language  breathed-  the   eloquence   of 

Truth  ; 
Whose  life,  beyond  perceptive  wisdom,  taught 
The  great  in  conduct,  and  \he  pure  in  thought,' 
7  97 


98  KOGEKS'S 

These  Still  exist,  by  Thee  to  Fame  consign'd, 
Siill  speak  and  act  the  models  of  mankind. 

From  thee  gay  Hope  her  airy  colouring  drawf 
And  Fancy's  flights  are  ?!ubiect  to  thy  la\v3. 
From  thee  that  bosom-spring  of  rapture  flows, 
Which  only  V^irtue,  tranquil  Virtue,  knows. 

Il  When  Joy's  bright  sun  has  shed  his  evening-  [\ 

\\  And  Hope's  delusive  meteors  cease  to  play  ; 

11  When   clouds  on   clouds  the  smiling   prospect 

',!  close, 

l|  Still  through  the  gloom  thy  star  serenely  glows; 

Il  Like  yon  fair  orb,  she  gilds  the  brow  of  nighl 

K  With  the  mild  magic  of  reflected  light. 

l! 

■i  The  beauteous  maid,   who   bids  the  world 

adieu. 
Oft  of  that  world  will  snatch  a  fond  review  ; 
Oft  at  the  shrine  neglect  her  heads,  to  trace 
Some  social  scene,  some  dear,  familiar  face  ; 
And  ere,  with  iron  tongue,  the  vesper-bell 
Bursts  through  the  cypress- walk,  the  convent- 
cell, 

II  Oft  will  her  warm  and  wayward  heart  revive, 

[|  To  love  and  joy  still  trem   lingly  alive  ; 

'':>  The  whisper'd  vow.  the  chaste  caress  prolong. 

Weave  the  light  dance,  and   swell  the   choral 
song 


PLtASTJKES    OF    MEMORY.  95 

With  tapt  ear  drink,  the  enchanting  serenade. 
And.  as  it  melts  along  the  nioonlighr-glade, 
To  each  soft  note  return  as  soft  a  sigh, 
And  bless  the  youth  that  b'ds  Iter  slumbers  fly. 

Bu.  not  till  Time  has  calm'd  the  ruffled  breast, 
Are  these  fond  dreams  of  happiness  confest. 
Not  till  the  rushing  winds  forget  to  rave, 
[s  ileaven's  sweet  smile  reflected  on  the  wave. 

From  Guinea's  coast  pursue  the  lessening  sail 
And  catch  the  sounds  that  sadden  every  gale. 
Tell,  if  thou  canst,  the  sum  of  sorrows  there  ; 
Mark  the  fix'd  gaze,  the  wild  and  frenzied  glare. 
The  racks  of  thought,  and  freezings  of  despair  ! 
But  pause  not  -hen — beyond  the  western  wave, 
Go,  seethe  captive  barter' d  as  a  slave  ! 
Crush' d  till  his  high,  heroic  spirit  bleeds, 
And  from  his  nerveless  frame  indignantlyrecedes 

Yet  here,  even  here,  with  pleasures  long  re- 
sign'd, 
Lo  !  Memory  bursts  the  twiUght  of  the  mind 
Her  dear  delusions  soothe  his  sinking  soul, 
When  the  rude  scourge  assumes  its  base  con 

trol ; 
And  o'er  Futurity's  blank  page  diffuse  * 
The  full  reflection  of  her  vivid  hues. 
'Tis  but  to  die,  and  then,  to  weep  no  more, 
Then  will  he  wake  on  Congo's  distant  shore; 


JOO  ROStRs's 

Beneaih  his  plantain's  ancient  shade  renew 
The  simple  transports  fh^t  with  freedom  flew  ; 
Catch   the   cool   breeze    that    musky   Evening 

blows, 
And  quaff  the  palm's  rich  nec.ar  as  it  glows  ; 
The  oral  tale  of  elder  time  rehearse, 
And  chant  the  rude,  traditionary  verse 
With  those,  the  loved  companions  of  his  youth, 
When  life  was  luxury,  and  friendship  truth. 

Ah!  why  should  Virtue  fear  the  frowns  of 
Fate! 

Hers  what  no  wealth  can  buy,  no  power  create'. 

A  little  world  of  clear  and  cloudless  dav, 

Nor  wreck'd  by  storms,  nor  moulder'd  by  de- 
cay , 

A  world,  with  Memory's  ceaseless  stn-shiue 
blest, 

The  home  of  Happiness,  an  honest  breast. 

But  most  we  mark  the  wonders  of  her  reign, 
•When  Sleep  has  lock'd  the  senses  in  her  chain. 
When  sober  Judgment  has  his  throne  resign'd, 
She  smiles  away  the  chaos  of  the  mind  ; 
And,  as  warm  Fancy's  bright  Elysium  glovti, 
From  her  each  image  springs,  each  colour  flows. 
She  is  the  sacred  guest  !  the  immortal  hicnd  1 
Oft  seen  o'er  sleeping  Innocence  to  bend, 
[n  that  dead  hour  of  night  to  Silence  given, 
Whispering  seraphic  visions  of  her  heaven. 


PLEASURES    OF    MEIV.ORY-.  101 

When   the  blithe  son   of  Savoy,  journeying 
round 
With  humble  wares  and  pipe  of  merry  sound, 
From  his  green  vale  and  shelter' d  cabin  hies, 
And  scales  the  Alps  to  visit  Ibreign  skies  : 
Though  far  below  the  forked  lighiniiigs  play, 
And  at  his  I'eet  the  thunder  die.,  away, 
Oft,  in  the  saddle  rudely  rock'd  to  sleep, 
While  his  mule  browses  oa  the  dizzy  steep, 
With  Memory's  aid,  he  sits  at  home,  and  sees 
His  children  sport  beneath  their  native  trees. 
And  bends  lo  hear  their  cherub-voices  call, 
O'er  the  loud  lury  of  liie  torrent" s  lall. 

But   can  her   smile   wiih  gloomy   Madness 
dwell  ? 
Say,  can  she  chase  the  horrors  of  his  cell  ? 
Each  fiery  flight  on  r  rjii/y's  wing  restrain. 
And  mould  the  coinage  of  the  fever'd  brain  ? 

Pass  but  that  grate,  which  scarce  a  gleam 

suppUes, 
There  in  the  dust  the  wreck  of  Genius  lies  ! 
He  whose  arresting  hand  divinly  wrought 
Each  bold  concepiion  in  the  sphere  of  thought ; 
And  round,  in  colours  of  the  rainbow,  threw 
Forms  ever  fair,  creations  ever  new  ! 
But,    as    he    fondly    snatch' d    the    wreath  of 

ir'ame. 
The  sceptre  Povert»  unnerved  his  frame. 


lOi  KUGERS'3 

Cold  was  lier  grasp,  a  witheniig  sc  owi  she  wore 
And  Hope's  soft  energies  were  felt  no  more. 
Yi  t  etill  how  SNvee;  the  sojtliiags  of  his  art  ! 
From  the  rude  wall  whit  bright  ideas  start ! 
Even  now  he  claims  the  amaranthine  wreath, 
With  scenes  that  glow,  with  images  that  breathe! 
And  whence  these  scenes,  ihese images,  declare, 
Whence  but  from  Her  who  triumphs  o'er  despair? 

Awake,  arise  I  with  grateful  fervour  fraught. 
Go,  spring  the  mine  of  elevating  thought. 
He,  who,  through  Nature's  various  walks,  sur 

veys 
The  good  and  fair  her  faultless  Une  portrays  ; 
Whose  mind,  profaned  by  no  unhallow'd  guest 
Culls  from  the  crowd  the  purest  and  the  best ; 
May  range,  at  will,  bright  r  ancy'sgolden  clime, 
Or,  musing,  mount  where  Science  sits  subUme, 
Or  wake  the  spirit  of  departed  Time. 
Who  acts  thus  wisely,  mark  the  moral  Muse, 
A  blooming  Eden  in  his  life  reviews  ! 
So  rich  the  culture,  though  so  small  the  space, 
Its  scanty  hmiis  he  forgets  to  trace. 
But  the  fond  fool,  when  evening  shades  the  sky 
Turns  but  to  start,  and  gazes  but  to  sigh  ! 
The  weary  waste,  that  lengthened  as  he  ran, 
Fades  to  a  blank,  and  dwindles  to  a  span ! 

Ah  !  who  can  tell  the  triumphs  of  the  mind. 
By  truth  illumined,  and  by  taste  refined  ? 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  103 

When  age  has  quench'd  the  eye,  and  closed  the 

ear, 
Still  nerved  for  action  in  her  native  sphere, 
Olt  will  she  rise — with  searching  glance  pursue 
Some    long-loved    image    vanish' d    from    her 

view  ; 
Dart  through  the  deep  recesses  of  the  past, 
O'er  dusky  forms  in  chains  of  slumber  cast ; 
With  giant-grasp  fling  back  the  folds  of  night, 
And  snatch  the  faithless  fugitive  to  light. 
So  through  the  grove  the  impatient  mother  flies, 
Each  sunless  glade,  each  secret  pathway  tries  ; 
Till  the  thin  leaves  the  truant  boy  disclose, 
Long  on  the  wood- moss  stretch' d  in  sweet  re- 
pose. 

Nor  yet  to  pleasing  objects  are  confined 
The  silent  feasts  of  the  reflecting  mind. 
Danger  and  death  a  dread  delight  inspire ; 
And  the  bald  veteran  glows  with  wonted  fire, 
When,  richly  bronzed  by  many  a  summer-sun, 
He  counts  his  scars   and  tells  what  deeds  were 
done. 

Go,  with  old  Thames,  view   Chelsea's  glori 
ous  pile ; 
And  ask  the  shatter'd  hero,  whence  his  smile? 
Go,  \iew  the  splendid  domes  of  Greenwich-* 

go. 
And  own  what  raptures  from  Reflection  flow. 


J04  ROGERS'S 

Hail,  nobles:  structures  imaged  in  the  wave  ! 
A  nation's  grateful  tribute  to  the  brave. 
Hail,  blest  retreats  from  war  and  shipwreck  hail! 
That  oft  arrest  the  wondermg  stranger's  sail. 
Long  have  ye  heard  the  narratives  of  age, 
The  battle's  havoc,  and  the  tempest  s  rage  ; 
Long  have  ye  known  Reflection's  genial  ray 
Gild  the  calm  close  of  Valour's  various  day. 

Time's  sombrous  touches  soon  correct  the 
piece, 
Mellow  each  tint,  and  bid  each  discord  cease : 
A  softer  tone  of  light  pervades  the  whole, 
And  steals  a  pensive  languor  o'er  the  soul. 

Hast   thou  through  Eden's  wild-wood  val«8 

pursued 
Each  mounlaiii-scene.  majestically  rude  ; 
To  note  the  sweet  simplirity  of  life. 
Far  from  the  din  of  Folly's  idle  strife  ; 
Nor  there  awhile,  with  lifted  eye.  revered 
That    modest    s'one    which    pious    Pr.MBROKB 

rear'd  ; 
Which  still  re'^ords,  boyor^d  the  pencil's  power. 
The  silent  sorrows  of  a  parting  hour  ; 
Still  to  the  musing  pilgrim  points  the  place^ 
Her  sajnted  spirit  most  delights  to  trace  ? 

Thus.  \\'ith  the  manly  glow  of  honest  pride, 
O'er  hijs  dead  son  'he  gallant  Crmo.nd  sigh'd 


PLEASURES    OF   MEMORY.  105 

lhu3,  through  the  gloom  of  Shenstoae's  fairy- 
grove, 
Makia's  urn  still  breathes  the  voice  of  love. 

As  the  stern  grandeur  of  a  Gothic  tower, 
Awes  us  less  deeply  in  its  morning-hour, 
Than  when  the  shades  of  Time  serenely  fall 
On  every  broken  arch  and  ivied  wall; 
The  tender  images  we  love  to  trace, 
Steal  from  each  year  a  melancholy  grace  ! 
And  as  the  sparks  of  social  love  expand, 
As  the  heart  opens  in  a  foreign  land  ; 
And,  with  a  brother's  warmth,  a  brother's  smile, 
The  stranger  greets  each  native  of  his  isle  ; 
So  scenes  of  life,  when  present  and  confess'd, 
Stamp  but  their  bolder  features  on  the  breast ; 
Yet  not  an  image,  when  remotely  view'd. 
However  trivial,  and  however  rude, 
But  wins  the  heart,  and  wakes  the  social  sigh. 
With  every  claim  of  close  affinity  ! 

But  these  pure  joys  the  world  can  never  know, 
In  gentler  climes  their  silver  currents  flow. 
Oft  at  the  silent,  shadov/y  close  of  day, 
When  the  hush'd  grove  has  sung  its  parting  lay ; 
When  pensive  Twiligbt,  in  her  dusky  car, 
Comes  slowly  on  to  meet  the  evening-star ; 
Above,  below,  aerial  murmurs  sweU, 
From  hanging  wood,  brown  heath   and  bushy 
dell! 


106  ROGEKS'S 

A  thousand  nameless  rills,  that  snun  .he  ight. 
Stealing  soft  music  on  the  ear  of  night. 
So  oft  the  finer  movements  of  the  soul, 
That  shun  the  sphere  of  Pleasure's  gay  control, 
In  the  still  shades  of  calm  Seclusion  rise, 
And  breathe  their  sweet,  seraphic  harmonies' 

Once,  and  domestic  annals  tell  the  time, 
(Preserved  in  Cumbria's  rude,  romantic  clime) 
When  Nature  smiled,  and  o'er  the  landscape 

threw 
Her  richest  fragance,  and  her  brightest  hue, 
A  blithe  and  blooming  Forester  explored 
Those  loftier  scenes  Salvator's  soul  adored  ; 
The  rocky  pass  half-hung  with  shaggy  wood, 
And  the  cleft  oak  flung  boldly  o'er  the  flood  ; 
Nor  shunn'd  the  track,  unknown  to  human  tread, 
That  downward  to  the  night  of  caverns  led ; 
Some  ancient  cataract's  deserted  bed. 

High  on  exultirig  wing  the  heath-cock  rose. 
And  blew  his  shrill  blast  o'er  perennial  snows; 
Ere  the  rapt  youth,  recoihng  from  the  roar. 
Gazed  on  the  tumbling  tide  of  dread  Lodore  ; 
And  through  the  rifted  cliffs,  that  scaled  the  sky, 
Derwent's  clear    mirror    charm' d  his    dazzled 

eye. 
Each  osier  isle,  inverted  on  the  wave, 
Through  morn's  gray  mist  its  melting  colours 


PLEASJRES    OF   MEMORY.  107 

And,  o'er  the  cygnet's  haunt,  the  mantlinggrove 
Its  emerald  arch  with  wild  luxuriance  v/ove. 

Light  -as  the  breeze  that  brush'd  the  orient  dew, 
From  rock  to  rock  the  young  Aavenuirer  flew  ; 
And  day's  last  suasliine  slept  along  (he  shore, 
When  lo,  a  path  the  smile  of  welcome  wore. 
Embowering   shrubs   with   verdure   veil'd   the 

sky, 
And  on  the  musk-rose  shed  a  deeper  dye  ; 
Save  when  a  bright  and  momentary  gleam 
Glanced  from  the  white  loam  of  some  shelter  d 

stream. 

O'er  the  still  lake  the  bell  of  evening  toU'd, 
And  on  the  moor  the  shepherd  penn'd  his  fold : 
And  on  the  green  hill's  side  the  meteor  play'd  ' 
When,  hark  !  a  voice  sung  sweetly  through  thi 

shade. 
It  ceased — yet  still  in  Florio's  fancy  sung, 
Still  on  each  ftote  his  captive  spirit  hung  ; 
Till  o'er  the  mead,  a  cool,  sequester'd  grot 
From  its  rich  roof  a  sparry  lustre  shot. 
A  crystal  water  cross'd  the  pebbled  floor, 
And  on  the  front  these  simple  lines  it  bore. 

Hence  away,  nor  dare  intrude  ! 
In  this  secret  shadowy  cell 
Musing  Memory  loves  to  dwell, 
With  her  sister  Solifjde 


lOd  ROG^ERS'S 

Far  from  the  busy  world  she  (lies, 
To  taste  that  peace  the  world  denies, 
Entranced  she  sirs  ;  trom  youth  to  age, 
Reviewing  Life  s  event/ul  page  ; 
And  norins,  ere  ihey  lade  away, 
The  little  lines  ot  yesterday. 

Florio  had  gain'd  a  riide  and  rocky  seat, 
When  lo,  the  Genius  of  this  still  retreat ! 
Fair  was  her  form — but  who  can  hope  to  trace 
The  pensive  soitness  of  her  angel-lace  ? 
Can  VirixIl's  verse,  can  Raphael's  touchimpart 
Those  finer  features  of  the  feeling  heart, 
Those  tenderer  tints  that  shon  the  careless  eye, 
And  in  the  world's  contagious  cUmaie  die  ? 

She  left  the  cave,  nor  mark'd  the  stranger 
there  ; 
Her  pastoral  beauty,  and  her  artless  air 
Had  breathed  a  soft  enchantment  o'er  his  soul ! 
In  every  nerve  he  felt  her  blest  control ! 
What  pure  and  white- wing'd  agents  of  the  sky, 
Who  rule  the  springs  of  sacred  sympathy, 
Inform  congenial  spirits  when  they  meet? 
Sweet  is  their  office,  as  their  natures  sweet ' 

Florio,  with  fearful  joy.  pursued  the  maid, 
Till  through  a  vista's  moonlight-chequer'd  shade 
Where  the  bat  circled,  and  the  rooks  reposed, 
(Thrir  wars  suspended,  and  theij  councils  closed) 


PLEASURES    OF   MEMORY.  109 

An  antique  mansion  burst  in  awful  sta  e, 
A  rich  vine  clustering  round  the  Gothic  gate. 
Nor  pauseJ  lie  there.     The  master  of  the  scene 
Saw  his  Hglit  sfep  imprint  the  dewy  green  ; 
And,  slow  advcmcing,  hail'd  him  as  his  guest, 
Won  by  the  honest  \varmt;i  his  looks  express'd 
He  wore  the  rustic  manners  of  a  Squire  ; 
Age  had  not  quench' d  one  spark  of  manly  fire; 
But  giant  Goui  had  bound  him  in  her  chain, 
And  his  heart  panted  for  the  chase  in  vain. 

Yet  here   Remembrance,   sweetly-soothing 

Power  ! 
Wing'd  with   delight    Confinement's  lingering 

hour. 
The  fox's  brush  still  emulous  to  wear, 
He  scour'd  the  county  in  his  elbow-chair; 
And,    with   view-halloo,  roused   the  dreaming 

hound, 
That   rung,    by   starts,    his   deep-^oned    music 

round. 

Long  by  the  paddock's  humble  pale  confined, 
His  aged  hunters  coursed  the  viewless  wind  : 
And  each,  with  glowing  energy  portray'd. 
The  far  famed  triumphs  of  the  field  display'd, 
Ursurp'd  the  canvass  of  the  crowded  hall, 
And  chased  a  Une  of  heroes  from  the  wall. 
Ther«  slept  the  horn  each  jocund  echo  knew, 
And  manv  a  smile  and  many  a  story  drew ! 


110  KOftERS's 

High  o'er  the  hearth  his  forest- trophies  hting, 
And  their  fantastic  branches  widely  Hung. 
How  would  he  dA-ell  on  the  vast  antlers  there 
These  Jash'd  the  wave,  those  fann'd  the  moun 

tain  ail. 
All,  as  they  frown'd,  unwriaeii  records  bore 
Of  gallant  feats  and  festivals  of  yore. 

But  why  the  tale  prolong  ? — His  only  child, 
His  darhng  Julia  on  the  stranger  smiled. 
Her  little  arts  a  fretful  sire  to  please, 
Her  gentle  gayety,  and  na'ive  ease 
Had  won  his  soui ;  and  rapturous  Fancy  shed 
Her  golden  lights,  and  tints  of  rosy  red. 
But  ah !  few  days  had  pass'd,   ere  the  bright 
vision  fled  I 

When  Evening  tinged  the  lake's  ethereal  bluCf 
And  her  deep  shades  irregularly  threw  ; 
Their  shifting  sail  dropt  gently  from  the  cove, 
Down  by  St.  Herbert's  consecrated  grove  : 
Whence  erst  the  chanted  hymn,  the  taper'd  rite 
Amused  the  fisher's  sohtary  night : 
And  still  the  mitred  window,  richly  wreathed, 
Asacred  calm  throughthe  brown  fohage  breathed. 

Theu-ilddeer^starting  throughthe  silent  glade 
With  fearful  saze  their  various  course  survey' d. 
High  hung  in  air  the  hoary  goat  reclined. 
His  streaming  beat  i  the  sport  of  every  wind  ; 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  H 

And,  while  the  coot  her  jet-wing  loved  to  lave, 
Rock'd  on  the  bosom  of  the  sleepless  wave  : 
The  eagle  rush'd  from  Skiddaw's  purple  crest, 
A  cloud  still  brooding  o'er  her  giant-nest. 

And  now  the  moon  had  di.mm'd  with  dewy  ray 
The  few  fine  flushes  of  departing  day. 
O'er  the  wide  water's  deep  serene  she  hung, 
And  her  broad  lights  on  every  mountain  flung 
When  lo,  a  sudden  blast  the  vessel  blew, 
And  to  the  surge  consign'd  the  httle  crew. 
AH,  all  escaped— hut  ere  the  lover  bore 
His  faint  and  faded  Julia  to  the  shore. 
Her  sense  had  fled  !— Exhausted  by  the  storm, 
A  fatal  trance  hung  o'er  her  pallid  form  ; 
Her  closing  eye  a  trembling  lustre  fired  : 
'Twas  life's  last  spark- -h  flutte'r'd  and  expired! 

The  father  strew'd  his  white  hairs  in  the  wind, 
Call'd  Oil  his  child— nor  hnger'd  long  behind  ; 
And  Florid  hved  to  see  the  willow  wave. 
With  many  an  evening- whisper,  o'er  their  grave, 
yes,  Florio  lived— and,  still  of  each  poss'ess'd, 
The  father  cherish'd  and  the  maid  caress'd ! 

For  ever  would  the  fond  enthusiast  rove, 
VVhh  Julia's  spirit  through  the  shadowy  grove 
Gaze  with  dehght  on  every  scene  she  plann'd. 
Kiss  every  flowrel  planted  by  her  hand. 
Ah  !  still  he  traced  her  steps  along  the  glade, 
When  h?zy  hues  and  glimmering  lightsl)6tray'(J 


112  ROGERS  S 

Half- viewless  forms  ;  still  listen'd  as  the  breez« 
Heaved  its  deep  sobs  among  the  aged  trees ; 
And  at  each  pause  her  melting  accents  caught, 
In  sweet  dehrium  of  romantic  thought  ! 
Dear  was  the  grot  that  shunn'd  the  blaze  of  day, 
She  gave  its  spars  to  shoot  a  trembling  ray. 
The  spring,  that  bubbled  from  its  inmost  cell, 
Murmur' d  ol"  Julia's  virtues  as  it  fell ; 
And  o'er  the  dripping  moss,  the  fretted  stone, 
In  Florio's  ear  breathed  language  not  its  own. 
Her  charm   around  the   enchantress   MemjdrI 

threw, 
A  charm  that  soothes  the  mind,  and  sweetens  too. 

But  is  her  magic  only  felt  below  ? 
Say,  through  what  brighter  realms  she  bids  it 

flow  ; 
To  what  pure  beings,  in  a  nobler  sphere, 
She  yields  delight  but  faintly  imaged  here  : 
All  that  till  now  their  rapt  researches  knew. 
Not  call'd  in  slow  succession  to  review  ; 
But,  as  a  landscape  meets  the  eye  of  day. 
At  once  presented  to  their  glad  survey  ! 

Each  scene  of  bliss  reveal'd,  since  chaos  fled 
And  dawning  light  its  dazzhng  glories  spread ; 
Each  chain  of  wonders  that  sublimely  glow'd, 
Since  first  Creation's  choral  anthem  flow'd; 
Each  ready  flight,  at  Mercy's  call  divme, 
To  distant  worlds  that  undiscov?.r'd  shine; 


PLEASURES    OF   MEMORY.  113 

Fall  on  her  tablet  flings  its  living  rays, 

And  all,  combined,  with  blest  effulgence  blaze. 

There  thy  bright  train,  immortal  Friendship 
soar  ; 
No  more  to  part,  to  mingle  tears  no  more ! 
And,  as  the  softening  hand  of  Time  endears 
The  joys  and  sorrows  of  our  infant  years. 
So  there  the  soul,  released  from  human  strife, 
Smiles  at  the  little  cares  and  ills  of  life  ; 
Its  lights  and  shades, its  sunshine  audits  showers; 
As  at  a  dream  that  charm' d  her  vacant  hours  ! 

Oft  may  the  spirits  of  the  dead  descend 
To  watch  the  silent  slumbers  of  a  friend ; 
To  hover  round  his  evening-waik  unseen. 
And  hold  sweet  converse  on  the  dusky  green; 
To  hail  the  spot  where  once  their  friendship  grew. 
And  heaven  and  nature  open'd  to  their  view  ! 
Oft,  when  he  trims  his  cheerful  hearth,  and  sees 
A  smihng  circle  emulous  to  please  ; 
There  may  these  gentle  guests  delight  to  dwell. 
And  bless  the  scene  they  loved  in  hfe  so  well  1 

Oh  thou!  with  whom  my  heart  was  wont  to 
share 
From   Reason's  dawn  each  pleasure  and  each 

care  ; 
With  whom,  alas  !  I  fondly  hoped  to  know 
The  humble  walks  of  happiness  below ; 
8 


114  KOGE'a>'s 

If  thy  blest  nature  now  unues  above 
An  angel's  pity  with  a  brother's  love, 
Still  o'er  my  life  preserve  thy  mild  conti(*l, 
Correct  my  viev/s,  and  elevate  my  soul  ; 
Grant  me  thy  peace  and  purity  of  mind, 
Devout  yet  cheerful,  active  yet  resign'd; 
Cram   me,    like   tliee,  whose   heart   knew   ne 

disguise, 
Whose  blameless  wishes  ne*'er  aim'd  to  rise, 
To  meet  the  changes  Time  and  Chance  present, 
With  modest  dignity  and  calm  content. 
When  thy  last  breath,  ere  Nature  sunk  to  rest, 
Thy  meek  su'unission  to  thy  God^.\press'd  ; 
When  thy  last  look,  ere  thouglit  and  feeling  fled, 
A  mingled  gleam  of  hope  and  triumph  shed  ; 
What  to  thy  soul  its  glad  assurance  gave. 
Its  hope  in  death,  iis  triumph  o'er  the  grave  ? 
The  sweet  Remembrance  of  unblemish'd  youth, 
The  stil!  inspiring  voice  of  Innocence  and  Truth! 

Hail,  Me.viORY,  hail  !  in  thy  cxhaustless  mine 
From  age  to  age  unnumber'd  treasures  shine  I 
Thought  and  her  shadowy  brood  thy  call  obry, 
And  Place  and  Time  are  subjects  to  thy  sway  ! 
Thy  pleasures  most  we  feel,  when  most  alone  ; 
The  only  pleasures  we  can  call  our  own. 
Lighter  than  air,  Hope's  summer-visions  die, 
If  l)ut  a  tleeiing  cloud  obs'ure  the  sky ; 
If  but  a  beam  of  sober  Reason  play, 
Lo,  Fanty's  fairy  frost-work  mtlts  awav  I 


FLEASL^KES    OF    MEMORY.  115 

But  can  the  wiles  of  Art,  the  firasp  of  Power, 
Snatch  the  ricli  relics  of  a  well-spent  hour  ? 
These,  when  the  trembling  spirit  winss her  flight. 
Pour  round  l^-r  path  a  stream  of  living  light  : 
And  gild  those  pure  and  perfect  realms  oi  rest, 
Where  Virtue  triumplis,  and  hei  sons  are  blest* 


2i  O  T  R  v^l 

TO 

PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY. 


PART  11. 


p.  98,  1.  1 

Tfwse  still  exist,  fw 

There  is  a  future  Existence  even  in  this  world,  afl 
Existence  in  the  hearts  and  minds  of  those  who  shall 
live  after  us.  It  is  in  reserve  for  every  man,  how- 
ever obscure  ;  and  his  portion,  if  he  he  dilieent,  must 
be,  equal  to  his  desires.  For  in  whose  remembrance 
can  we  wish  to  hold  a  place,  but  such  as  know,  and 
are  known  by  us  7  These  are  within  the  sphere  of 
our  influence,  and  among  these  and  their  descendants 
V  e  n'dv  live  for  evermore. 

.  's  a  state  of  rewards  and  punishments  ;  and,  like 
that  revealed  to  us  in  the  Gospel,  has  the  happiest 
influence  on  our  lives.  The  latter  excites  us  to  gain 
the  favou!  of  God,  the  former  to  gain  the  love  and 
esteem  c*  ise  and  good  men  ;  and  both  lead  to  the 
same  eiic  .  for,  in  framing  ouj  conceptions  of  the 
Deity,  we  only  ascribe  to  Him  exalted  degrees  of 
Wisdom  and  Goodness. 

117 


118  \OTES    TO 

P.   102,  1.   3. 
Yet  5!i))  how  sweet  the  smiliiiiis  of  kis  art ! 

The  astronomer  chalkinsr  his  tlsrures  on  the  wall, 
n  Hogarth's  view  of  Befllani,  is  an  admirable  exero- 
plificaiion  of  this  idea. — See  the  Rake's  Progress^ 
plate  8. 

P.  102,  1.  24. 

Turns  l^ut  to  start,  and  i^zes  but  to  sish  I 

The  followinsT  stanzas  are  said  to  have  been  writle'* 
»n  a  blank  leaf  of  this  Poem.  They  present  so  alfec  - 
ing  a  reverse  of  the  picture,  that  I  cannot  resist  tM 
opportunity  of  introducins;  them  here. 

PJf-asures  of  Memory  !— oh  I  supremely  blest, 

And  justly  proud  beyond  a  Pnet's  praise  ; 

If  the  pure  confines  of  thy  tranquil  breast 

Contain,  iudeei,  the  subject  of  thy  lays  ! 

By  me  ha«-  envied  '.—for  to  me, 

The  herald  stiJl  of  misery. 

Memory  makes  htr  influence  known 

By  sizhs.  and  tears,  and  grief  alone  : 
I  ^reet  her  as  the  fiend,  to  whom  be  oug 
The  vuitur.-'s  ravenin;  beak,  the  r.iven's  funeral  soog. 
^"ie  tells  of  time  mispent,  of  comfort  lost, 

Of  fair  occasions  gone  for  ever  by  ; 
Of  hopes  too  fondly  nursed,  too  ludely  crossed. 
Of  many  a  cause  to  wish  yet  f<-ar  to  die ; 

Fnr  what,  except  'he  ii^stinctive  fe»r 

Lest  she  survive,  de'ain-  n»e  here. 

When  "all  the  life  of  life"  i*  fled  ?— 

What,  but  the  deep  inherent  aread. 
Lest  she  beyond  the  grave  rrs'jme  her  reis:n, 
And  realize  tie  hell  that  p'ies's  and  beldames  feign  > 

P   104,  1.   14. 
Hast  thau  through  Eden's  wild  wood  vales  pursued. 
On  the  road-side  between   Penrith  and  Appleby, 
there  stands  a  small  pillar  with  this  inscription: 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMOKY.  119 

"This  pillar  was  erected  in  the  year  1656,  by  Ann 
Countess  Dowager  of  Pembroke,  &c.  for  a  memorial 
of  her  last  parting,  in  this  place,  with  her  good  and 
pious  mother,  Margaret  Countess  Dowager  of  Cum- 
berland, on  the  2d  of  April,  1616 ;  in  memory  whereof 
she  haih  left  an  annuity  of  4L  to  be  distributed  to  the 
poor  of  the  parish  of  Brougham,  every  ''d  day  of 
April  for  ever,  upon  the  stone  table  placed  hard  by. 
Laus  Deo!" 

The  Eden  is  the  principal  river  of  Cumberland,  and 
rises  in  the  wildest  part  of  Westmoreland. 

P.  104,  1.  27. 

O'er  his  dead  son  the  gallant  Ormond  si;h'd. 

"  I  would  not  exchange  my  dead  son"  said  he, "  for 
*ny  living  son  in  Christendom."— //^ume. 

The  same  sentiment  is  inscribed  on  an  urn  at  the 
Leasowes.  "Heu,  quanto  minus  est  cum  reliquis 
versari,  quam  tui  meminisse  !" 

P.  110,  1.  19. 
Down  by  St.  Herbert's  consecrated  grove  ; 
A  small  island  covered  with  trees,  among  which 
were  formerly  the  ruins  of  a  religious  house. 
P.  Ill,  1.  9. 

When  lo  !   a  sudden  blast  the  vessel  biew. 

In  a  mountain-lake  the  agitations  are  often  violent 
and    momentary.     The    winds   blow    in    gusts    and 
eddies  ;  and  the  water  no  sooner  swells,  than  it  sub- 
sides.—See  Eourn'i:  Hist,  of  IVestmoreland. 
P.  112,1.   17. 
To  whit  pure  tieings,  in  a  .lobler  sphere  ; 

The  sevcal  deg.ees  of  angels  miiy  probably  have 


130        NOTES    TO    PLEASURES   OF   MEMORY. 

larger  views,  and  some  of  them  be  endowed  with  ca- 
pacities able  to  retain  together,  and  constantly  sel 
fcefore  them,  as  in  one  picture,  all  their  past  know- 
laUge  at  once.— Z,oci«. 


BMD   OF    PLEASURES   Or   HEMOBW 


AKENSIDE'S 
PTRASURES  OF  IMAGINATION 

A  POEM  IN  THREE  BOOKS. 


Q/n^LoJ^&t.i .—Epict.  apucl  Arrian.  II.  13» 


ARGl MENT 


The  subject  proposed.  Difficulty  of  treating  it 
poetically.  The  ideas  of  the  Divine  mind,  the  origin 
of  every  quality  pleasing  to  the  imagination.  The 
natural  variety  of  constitution  in  the  minds  of  men  ; 
With  its  final  cause.  The  idea  of  a  fine  imagination, 
and  the  state  of  the  n;ind  in  the  enjoyment  of  those 
pleasures  which  it  aifords.  All  the  primary  pleasures 
ol  the  imagination  result  from  the  perception  of 
greatness,  or  wonderl'ulness,  or  beauty,  in  objects 
The  pleasure  from  greatness,  with  its  final  cause. 
Pleasure  from  novelty  or  wonderfulness,  with  its 
final  cause.  Pleasure  from  beauty,  with  its  iinal 
cause.  The  connexion  of  beauty  with  truth  and 
good,  applied  to  the  conduct  of  life.  Invitation  to 
l.ie  study  of  mora!  jiliilosoji-hy.  The  different  degrees 
of  beauty  in  different  species  of  objects :  colour; 
Ehape  ;  natural  concretes  ;  vegetables  ;  animals  ;  the 
mind.  Tlie  sublime,  the  lair,  the  wonderJul  of  the 
mind.  The  connexion  of  the  iniagination  and  tha 
Dinral  facull}       Cjdc    fion 


129 


THE 

PLEASURES  OF  IMAGINATION. 


BOOK  I. 

With  what  attractive  charms  this  goodly  frame 
Of  Nature  touches  the  consenting  hearts 
Of  mortal  men;  and  what  the  pleasing  stores 
Which  beauteous  imitation  thence  derives 
To  deck  the  poet's,  or  the  painter's  toil; 
My  verse  unfolds.     Attend,  ye  gentle  powers 
Of  musical  delight !  and  while  I  sing 
Your  gifts,  your   honours,  dance   around  my 

strain. 
Thou,  smiling  queen  of  every  tuneful  breast, 
Indulgent  Fancy !  from  the  fruitful  banks 
Of  Avon,  whence  thy  rosy  fingers  cull 
Fresh  flowers  and  dews  to  sprinkle  on  the  turf 
Where  Shakspeare  Hes,  be  present :  and  with 

thee 
Let  Fiction  come,  upon  her  vagrant  wings 
Wofting  ten  thcMsaiid  colours  through  the  air, 


124  ak£A'side's 

Which   by  the  glances  of  her  mji^ic  eye, 

She  blends  and  shifts  at  will,  through  countless 

forms, 
Her  w-ld  creation.     Goddess  of  the  lyre, 
Which  rules  the  accents  of  the  moving  sphere, 
Wilt  thou,  eternal  Harmony  !  descend. 
And  join  this  festive  train  ?  for  with  thee  cornea 
Tlie  guide,  the  guardian  of  their  lovely  sports, 
Majestic   Truth ;    and   where    Truth  deigns  to 

come, 
Her  sister  Liberty  \yill  not  be  far. 
Be  present  all  ye  genii,  who  conduct 
The  wandering  footsteps  of  the  youthful  bard, 
New  to  your  springs  and  shad  js  :  who  touch  bin 

ear 
With  finer  sounds  :  who  heighten  to  his  eye 
The  bloom  of  Nature  ;  and  before  him  turn 
The  gayest,  happiest  attitude  of  things. 

Oft  have  the  laws  of  each  poetic  strain 
The  critic-verse  employ'd  ;  yet  still  unsung 
Lay  this  prime  subject,  though  importing  most 
A  poet's  name  :  for  fruitless  is  th'  attempt, 
By  dull  obedience  and  by  creeping  toil 
Obscure  to  conquer  the  severe  ascent 
Of  high  Parnassus.     Nature's  kindling  breath 
Must  fire  the  chosen  genius  ;  Nature's  hand 
Must  string  his  nerves,  and  imp  his  eagle- wings, 
impatient  of  the  painful  steep  to  soar 
High  as  the  summit     there  to  breathe  at  large 


PLEASURES   OF   HVIAGINAT.  ON.  125 

Ethereal  air ;  with  bards  and  sages  old, 
Immortal    sons    of    praise.       These    flattering 

scenes, 
To  this  neglected  hiboui  court  my  song  ; 
Yet  not  unconscious  what  a  doleful  task 
To  paint  the  finest  features  of  the  mind, 
And  to  most  subtle  and  mysterious  things 
Give  colour,  strength,  and  motion.    But  the  love 
Of  Nature  and  the  muses  bids  explore. 
Through  secret  paths  ere  while  untrod  by  man, 
The  fair  poetic  region,  to  detect 
Untasted  springs,  to  drink  inspiring  draughts, 
And  shade  my  temples  with  unfading  flowers 
Cull'd  from  the  laureate  vale's  profound  recess. 
Where  never  poet  gain'd  a  wreath  before. 

From  Heaven  my  strains  begin  ;  from  Heaven 
descends 
The  flame  of  genius  to  the  human  breast, 
And  love  and  beauty,  and  poetic  joy 
And  inspiration.     Ere  the  radiant  Sun 
Sprang  from  the  east,  or  'mid  the  vault  of  night 
The  Moon  suspended  her  serener  lamp ; 
Ere  mountains,  woods,  or  streams,  adorn'd  the 

globe, 
Or  Wisdom  taught  the  sons  of  men  her  lore  ; 
Then  lived  th'  Almighty  One :  then,  deep  retired 
In  his  unfathom'd  essence,  view'd  the  forms, 
The  forms  eternal  of  created  things  ; 
The  radiimt  Sun,  the  Moon's  nocturnal  lamp, 


126  akexside's 

The  mouiitair.s,  woods,  and  streams,  the  rolling 

globe, 
And  Wisdom's  mien  celestial.     From  the  first 
Of  days,  on  them  his  love  divine  he  fix'd, 
His  admiration  :  till  in  time  complete, 
What  he  admired  and  loved,  his  vital  smile 
Unfolded  into  being.     Hence  the  breath 
Of  life  informing  each  organic  frame, 
Hence  the  green  earth,  and  wild  resounding 

waves  ; 
Hence  light  and  shade  alternate  ;  warmth  and 

cold ; 
And  clear  autumnal  skies,  and  vernal  showers, 
And  all  the  fair  variety  of  things. 

But  not  ahke  to  every  mortal  eye 
Is   this  great   scene   unveil' d.     For   smce  the 

claims 
Of  social  Ufe  to  different  labours  urge 
The  active  powers  of  man  ;  with  \\  ise  intent 
The  hand  of  Nature  on  peculiar  minds 
Imprints  a  different  bias,  and  to  each 
Decrees  its  province  in  the  common  toil. 
To  some  she  taught  the  fabric  of  the  sphere, 
The  changeful  moon,  the  circuit  of  the  stars, 
The  golden  zones  of  Heaven ;  to  some  she  gave 
To  weigh  the  moment  of  eternal  things. 
Of  time,  and  space,  and  Fate's  unbroken  chain, 
And  Will's  q  jick  impulse  :  others  by  the  hand 
She  led  o'er  \ales  and  moun  ains,  to  explore 


PLEASURES    OF   IMAGINATION.  12" 

What  lieaiing  virtue  swell  the  tender  veins 
01"  herbs  and  flov/ers ;  or  what  the  beams  of 

morn 
Draw  forth,  disiiUing  from  the  clefted  rind 
In  balmy  tears.     But  some  to  higher  hopes 
Were  destiufd  ;  some  within  a  finer  mould 
She  wrought  and  temper'd  with  a  purer  flame. 
To  these  the  Sire  Omnipotent  unfolds 
The  world's  harmonious  volume,  there  to  read 
The  transcript  of  himself.     On  every  part 
They  trace  the  bright  impressions  of  his  hand  : 
In  earth  or  air,  the  meadow's  purple  stores, 
The  Moon's  mild  radiance,  or  the  virgin's  form 
Blooming  with  rosy  smiles,  they  see  portray'd 
That  uncreated  beauty,  which  delights 
The  mind  supreme.     They  also  feel  her  charins 
Enamour'd  ;  they  partake  the  eteraaUjoy. 

For  as  old  Memnon's  image  long  renown'd 
By  favouring  Nilus,  to  the  quivering  touch 
Of  Titan's  ray,  with  each  repulsive  string 
Consenting,  sounded  through  the  warbling  ail 
Unbidden  strains  ;  even  so  did  Nature's  hand 
To  certain  species  of  external  things, 
Attune  the  finer  organs  of  the  mind  : 
So  the  glad  impulse  of  congenial  powers. 
Or  of  sweet  sounds,  or  fair-proportion'd  form. 
The  grace  of  motion,  or  the  bloom  of  light, 
Thrills  through  Imagination's  tender  frame, 
From  nerve  to  lerve  :  all  naked  and  alive, 


128  akensipe's 

They  catch  the  spieadiiig  rays  ;  till  now  the  soiil 
At  length  discJuses  every  tuneful  spring, 
To  that  harmonious  luovemeni  iroui  without 
Responsive.     Then  the  inexpressive  strain 
Diffuses  its  enchaiUme.it ;  Fancy  dreams 
Of  sacred  fountains  and  Elysian  groves, 
And  vales  of  bliss  :  the  intellectual  power 
Bends  from  his  awful  throne  a  wondering  ear 
And  smiles:  ihe  passions,  gently  soothed  away, 
Sink  to  divine  repose,  and  love  and  joy 
Alone  are  waking  ;  love  and  joy  serene 
As  airs  that  fan  the  summer.     O  !  attend, 
Whoe'er  thou  art,  whom  these  deUghts  can  touch, 
Whose  candid  bosom  the  refining  love 
Of  Nature  warms,  0  listen  to  my  song ; 
And  i  will  guide  thee  to  her  favourite  walks, 
And  teach*liiy  sohtude  her  voice  to  hear, 
And  point  her  loveliest  features  to  thy  view. 

Know  then,  whate'er   of  Nature's   pregnant 
stores, 
Whate'er  of  mimic  Art's  reflected  forms 
With  love  and  admiration  thus,  inflame 
The  powers  of  fancy,  her  delighted  sons 
To  three  illustrious  orders  have  referr'd; 
Three  sister-graces,  whom  the  painter's  hand. 
The  poet's  tongue,  confesses  ;  the  subhme, 
The  wonderful,  the  fair.     I  see  them  dawiii 
[  see  the  radiant  visions,  where  they  rise. 
More  lovely  than  wher  Lucifer  displays 


PLEASimES    OF    IMAGINAIION.  1S!9 

His  beaming  forehead  through  the  gates  of  morn 
To  lead  the  train  of  Phrebns  and  the  Spring, 

Say,  \vhy  was  man  so  eminently  raised 
Amid  the  vast  creation  ;  why  ordain'd 
Through  life  and  death  to  dart  his  piercing  eye, 
With  thoughts  beyond  the  limits  of  his  frame ; 
But  that  tb?  Hinnipotent  mi-^ht  Fend  him  forth 
In  sight  o!   :n:.vta!  dnd  iniiaoi-'al  :;;WLrs, 
As  on  a  boundless  theatre  to  run 
The  great  career  of  justice  ;  to  exalt 
His  generous  aim  to  all  diviner  deeds  ; 
To  chase  car'n  nariia!  M-njio'^e  from  I'.is  breast, 
And  through  the  mist  of  passion  and  of  sense, 
And  through  the  tossing  lide  of  c/iance  and  pain, 
To  hold  '.lis  course  uPifaltering,  while  the  voice 
Of  Truth  and  Virtue,  up  the  sreep  ascent 
Of  Nature,  calls  him  to  his  high  reward, 
The  applauding  smile  of  heaven  ?    Else  where- 
fore burns 
In  mortal  bosoms  this  unquenched  hope, 
That  breathes  from  day  to  day  sublimer  things, 
And  marks  possession?  wherefore  darts  the  mind, 
With  such  resistless  ardour  to  embrace 
Majestic  forms;  impatient  to  be  free, 
Spuming  the  gross  control  of  wilful  might ; 
Proud  of  the  strong  contention  of  her  toils  ; 
Proud  to  be  daring  ?  Who  but  rather  turns 
To  Heaven's  broad  fire  his  unconstrained  view 
Than  to  the  gUmmering  of  a  waxen  flame  f 
9 


180  aee'-side's 

;  Will/,  that  from  Alpine  heights,  his  .abouringeyc 

I  Shoots  round  the  wide  horizon,  to  survey 

[  Nilus  or  Ganges  rolling  liis  bright  wave 

[  Through   mountains,    plains,    through   empires 

black  with  shade. 
And  continents  of  sand  ;  will  turn  his  saze 
To  mark  the  windinss  of  a  scanty  riil 
That  murmurs  at  his  feet  ?  The  high  born  soul 
Disdains  to  rest  her  heaven-aspiring  wing 
Beneath  its  native  quarry.     Tired  of  Earth 
And  this  diurnal  scene,  she  springs  aloft 
Through  fields  of  ni^ ;  p  irsues  the  flying  storm; 
Rides   on   the   voUey'd   lightning   through   the 
heavens; 
\)  Or,  yoked  with  vvhirl winds,  and  the  nothern blast, 

;!  Sweeps   the  long  tract  of  day.     Then  high  she 

■1  soars 

)i  The  blue  profound,  and  hovering  round  the  Sun, 

Beholds  him  pouring  the  redundant  stream 
Of  Ughi ;  beholds  his  unrelenting  sway 
Bend  the  reluctant  planets  to  absolve 
The  fated  rounds  of  Time.     Thence  far  effused 
She  darts  her  swiftness  up  the  long  career 
Of  devious  comets  ;  through  its  burning  sign* 
bixulting  measures  the  perennial  wheel 
Of  Nature,  and  looks  back  on  all  'he  stars, 
Y  Whose  blended  light,  as  with  a  n.ilky  zone, 

1;  Invest  the  orient.     Now  amazed  she  views 

The  empyreal  waste,  where  happy  spirits  hold, 
Beyond  th's concave  heaven,  their  calm  abode; 


PLEABUKE'S    OF    I5TAGINATI0N.  131 

And  fields  of  radiance,  whose  unfading  light 
lias  travell'd  the  profound  six  thousand  years, 
Nor  yet  arrives  hi  sight  of  mortal  things. 
Even  on  the  barriers  of  the  world  untired 
She  meditates  the  eternal  depth  below  ; 
Till  half  recoiling,  down  the  he'idlong  steep 
She   plunges;    soon    o'erwhelm'd    and    swaU 

low'd  up 
In  that  immense  of  being.     There  hei'  hopes 
Rest  at  the  fated  goal.     For  from  the  birth 
Of  mortal  man,  the  sovereign  Maker  said, 
That  not  in  humlde  nor  in  brief  delight, 
Not  in  the  fading  echoes  of  Renown, 
Power's  purple  robes,  nor  Pleasure's  flowery  lap 
The  soul  should  find  enjoyment :  but  from  these 
Turning  disdai^iful  to  an  equal  good. 
Through  all  the  ascent  of  tilings  enlarge  herview, 
Till  every  bound  at  length  should  disappear, 
And  infinite  perfection  close  the  scene. 

Call  now  to  mind  what  high  capacious  powers 
Lie  folded  up  in  man  ;    how  far  beyond 
The  praise  of  mortals,  may  the  eternal  growth 
Of  Nature  to  perfection  half  divine, 
Expand  the  blooming  soul  ?    What  pity  then 
Should  Sloth's  ankindly  fogs  depress  to  Earth 
Her  tender  blossom  ;  choke  the  streams  of  life. 
And  blast  her  spring !     Far  otherwise  design'd 
Almighty  Wisdom ;  Nature's  happy  cares 
The  nbt  dient  heart  far  otherwise  incline. 


132  AKEN?lt)E'S 

Witnftas  the  sprightly  joy  when  aught  unkTiown 
Strikes  the  quick  sense,  a'-d  wakes  each  active 

power 
To  brisker  measures  ;  \\'itness  the  nenlect 
Of  all  familiar  prospects,  though  beheld 
With  transport  once  ;  the  fond  atteiuive  gaze 
Of  young  astonishment ;  the  sober  zeal 
Of  age,  comnienliug  on  prodigious  things, 
For  such  the  bounteous  Providence  of  Heaven 
In  every  breast  implanting  this  desire 
Of  objects  new,  and  strange,  to  urge  us  on 
With  unremitted  labour  to  pursue 
Those  sacred  stores  that  wait  the  ripening  soul  • 
In  Trutlj's  exhaust  less  bosom.   What  need  words 
To  pauit  its  power  ?     For  this  the  daring  youth 
Breaks  from  his  weeping  mother's  anxious  arms, 
In  foreign  climes  to  rove  :  the  pensive  sage, 
Heedless  of  sleep,  or  midnight's  harmful  damp, 
Hangs  o'er  the  sickly  taper ;  and  untired 
The  virgin  follows,  with  enchanted  step, 
The  mazes  of  soine  wild  and  wondrous  taie, 
From  morn  to  eve  ;  unmindful  of  her  form, 
Unmindful  of  the  happy  dress  that  stole 
The  wishes  of  the  youth,  when  every  maid 
With  envy  pined.     Hence,  finally,  by  night 
The  village  matron,  round  the  blazing  hearth, 
Suspends  the  infant  audience  with  her  tales, 
Breathing  astonishment  !  of  witching  rhymea 
And  evil  spirits  ;  of  the  death-bed  call 
Of  aim  wh    robb'd  the  widow,  and  devour'd 


PLEASURES    OF    IMAGINATION.  133 

The  OTphans'  portion  ;  oi  unquiet  souls 
Risen  from  ihe  grave  to  ease  the  heavy  guilt 
Of  deeds  in  lite  conceal'd  ;  of  shapes  that  walk 
A.t  dead  of  night,  aiid  clank,  their  chains,  and  wave 
The  torch  of  Hell  around  the  murderer's  bed. 
At  every  solemn  pause  the  crovd  recoil, 
Gazing  each  other  speechless,  and  congeal'd 
With  shivering  sighs  ;  till  eager  for  the  event, 
Around  the  beldame  all  erect  they  hang, 
Each  trembling  heart  wi':h  grateful  terrors  quell' d 

But  lo  !  disclosed  ir.  all  her  smiling  pomp, 
Where  beauty  onward  moving  claims  the  verse 
Her  charms  inspire :  the  iieely-flowing  verse 
In  thy  immortal  praise,  O  form  divine, 
Smooths  her  mellifluent  stream.    Thee,  Beauty 

thee, 
The  regal  dome,  and  thy  enlivening  ray 
The  mossy  roofs  ado:e:   thou,  i:e  'ler  Sun! 
For  ever  beamest  on  the  enchanted  heart 
Love,  and  harmonious  wonder,  and  delight 
Poetic.     Brightest  progeny  of  Heaven  ! 
How  shall  I  trace  thy  features  ?  where  select 
The  roseate  hues  to  emulate  thy  bloom  ? 
Haste  then,  my   sons,  through   Nature's  wide 

expanse. 
Haste  then,  and  gather  all  her  comeUest  wealth, 
Whaie'er  bright  spoils  the  florid  earth  contains, 
Whate'er  the  waters,  or  the  Uquid  air. 
To  deck  thy  lovely  labour.    Wilt  thou  fly 


134  AK£-NSIli2'S 

With  Ia\igning  Autuaii)  lo  the  Atiatitic  /sles, 
And  range  wiih  him  ihe  Hesperian  field,  and  set 
Where'er  his  fingers  lou;  h  ;he  iruitlul  grove, 
The  branches  shooi  uiih  gold  ;  where'er  his  step 
Marks  ihe  glud  soil,  liie  tender  clusters  grow 
With  purple  ripeness,  a!:d  invest  each  hill 
As  wirh  the  blushes  of  an  evening  sky  ? 
Or  wilt  thou  rather  stoop  thy  vagrant  plume, 
Where  gUding  through  his  daughter's  honour'd 

shades, 
The  smooih  Peneus  from  his  glassy  flood 
Reflects  purpureal  Tempe's  pleasant  scene? 
Fair  Tempe  I  haunt  beloved  oi  sylvan  powers, 
Of  Nymphs  and  Fauns  ;  where  iii  the  golden  age 
They  play'd  in  secret  on  the  shady  brink 
With  ancient  Fan  ;  while  round  their  choral  steps 
Young  Hoursand  genial  Gales  wiih  constant  hand 
Shower'd  blossoms,  odours,  shower'd  embrosial 

dews. 
And  Spring's  Elysi^n  uloom.    Her  flowery  store 
To  thee  nor  I'empe  shall  refuse  ;  nor  watch 
Of  winged  Hydra  guard  Hesperian  fruits 
From  thy  free  spoil.     0  bear  then,  unreproved. 
Thy  smiling  treasures  to  the  green  recess 
Where  young  Dione  stays.     With  sweetest  air« 
Entice  her  forfh  to  lend  her  angel-ibrm 
For  Beauty's  honour'd  image.     Hither  turn 
Thy  graceful  footsteps;  hither,  gentle  maid. 
Incline  thy  polish' d  forehead  :  let  thine  eyes 
Effuse  the  mildness  of  their  azure  dawn; 


PLEASURES    OF    IMAGINATION.  135 

And  may  the  fanning  breezes  waft,  aside 
Thy  radiant  locks :  disclosing,  as  it  bends 
With  airy  softness  from  the  marble  neck, 
The  cheek  fair-blooming,  and  the  rosy  lip, 
Where  winning  smiles  and  pleasures  sweet  aa 

love, 
With  sanctity  and  wisdom,  tempering  blend 
Their  soft  allurement.     Then  the  pleasing  force 
Of  Nature,  and  her  kind  parental  care, 
Worthier  I'd  sing:  then  all  the  enamour' d  youth, 
With  each  admiring  virgin,  to  my  lyre 
Should  throng  attentive,  while  I  point  on  high 
Where  Beauty's  living  image,  like  the  morn 
That  wakes  in  Zephyr's  arms  the  blushing  May, 
Moves  onward  ;  or  as  Venu«i,  when  she  stood 
Effulgent  on  the  pearly  car,  and  smiled. 
Fresh  from  the  deep,  and  conscious  of  her  form 
To  see  the  Tritons  tune  their  vocal  shells, 
And  each  cerulean  sister  of  the  flood 
With  loud  acclaim  attend  her  o'er  the  waves, 
To  seek  the  Idalian  bower.     Ye  smiling  band 
Of  youths  and  virgins,  who  through  all  themaz* 
Of  youns:  desire  with  rival  s'eps  pursue 
This  charm  of  beauty  ;  if  the  pleasing  toil 
Can  yield  a  moment's  respite,  hither  turn 
Your  favourable  ear.  and  trust  my  words. 
I  do  not  mean  to  wake  the  gloomy  form 
Of  Superstition  dress'd  in  wisdom's  garb, 
To  damp  your  tender  hopes  ;  I  do  not  raenn 
To  bid  the  jealous  thunderer  fire  the  heaven* 


r36  akenside's 

Or  shapes  inferna.  rend  the  gioaning  E]arth 
To  fright  you  from  your  joys :  my  cheerful  song 
With  better  omens  calls  you  to  the  iield, 
Pleased  with  your  generous  ardour  in  the  chase. 
And  warm  like  you.    Then  tell  me,  for  ye  know. 
Does  Beauty  ever  deign  to  dwell  where  health 
Ar.d  active  use  are  strangers  ?     Is  her  charm 
Confess'd  in  aught,  whose  most  peculiar  ends 
Are  lame  and  fruitless  ?     Or  did  Nature  mean 
This  pleasing  call  the  herald  of  a  lie  ; 
To  hide  the  shame  of  discord  and  disease, 
And  catch  with  fairy  hypocrisy  the  heart 
Of  idle  faith  ?     O  no:  with  better  cares 
The  indulgent  mother,  conscious  how  infirm 
Her  offspring  tread  the  paths  of  good  and  ill, 
By  this  illustrious  image,  in  each  kind 
Still  most  ilUistrious  where  the  object  holds 
Its  native  powers  most  perfect,  she  by  this 
Illumes  the  headstrong  impulse  of  desire, 
And  sanctifies  his  choice.     The  generous  glebe 
Whose  bosom  smiles  with  verdure,  the  clear  tract 
Of  streams  delicious  to  the  thirsty  soul, 
The  bloom  of  nectar'd  fruitage  ripe  to  sense. 
And  every  charm  of  animated  things, 
Are  only  pledges  of  a  state  sincere, 
The  integrity  and  order  of  their  frame. 
When  all  is  well  within,  and  every  end 
Accomplish'd.    Thus   was    Beauty   sent   froxn 

heaven, 
The  lovely  rrinistress  of  truth  and  good 


PLEASI7JIES    Of    IMAGINATIO^r.  137 

In  this  dark  world :  for  truth  and  good  are  one 

And  Beauty  dwells  in  them,  and  the}'  in  her, 

With  like  participation.     Vv^'herefore,  th'^n, 

O  sons  of  earth  !  would  ye  dissolve  l!'"-  .ie  ? 

O  wherefore,  with  a  rash  impetuous  aun, 

Seek  ye  those  flowery  joys  with  which  the  hand 

Of  lavish  Fancy  paints  each  flattering  scene 

Where  Beauty  seems  to  dwell,  nor  once  enquire 

Where  is  the  sanction  of  eternal  truth, 

Or  where  the  seal  of  undeceitful  good. 

To  save  your  search  from  folly  !  Wanting  these, 

Lo  !  Beauty  withers  in  your  void  embrace, 

And  with  the  glittering  of  an  idiot's  toy 

Did  Fancy  mock  your  vows.  Nor  let  the  gleam 

Of  youthful  hope,  that  shines  upon  your  hearts, 

Be  chill'  d  or  clouded  at  this  awful  task, 

To  learn  the  lore  of  undeceitful  good, 

And  truth  eternal.  Though  the  poisonous  charms 

Of  baleful  Superstition  guide  the  feet 

Of  servile  numbers  through  a  dreary  way 

To  their  abode,  through  deserts,  thorns,  and  mire; 

And  leave  the  wretched  pilgrim  all  forlorn 

To  muse  at  last,  amid  the  ghostly  gloom 

Of  graves,  and  hoary  vaults,  and  cloister'd  cells  ; 

To  walk   wi'.h   spectres  through  the   midnight 

shade, 
And  to  the  screaming  owl's  accursed  song 
Attune  the  dreadful  workings  of  his  heart  ; 
Yet  be  not  ye  dismay'd.     A  gentler  star 
Your,  lovely  seavch  illumines.     From  the  grove 


138  akenside's 

Where  Wisdom  talk'd  with  her  Achenian  ions, 
Could  my  ap.ibitious  hand  entwine  a  wreath 
Of  Plato's  olive  with  the  Mantuan  bay, 
Then  should  my  powerful  verse  at  once  dispel 
Those  ijio.ikiah  horrors  :  then  m  light  divine 
Disclose  the  Elysian  prospect,  where  the  steps 
Of  those  whom  Nature  charms,  through  bloom 

ing  walks, 
Through  fragrant  mountains  and  poetic  streamg, 
Amid  the  train  of  sages,  heroes,  bards, 
Led  by  their  winged  Genius  and  the  choir 
Of  laurel'd  Science,  and  harmonious  Art, 
Proceed,  exulting,  to  the  eternal  shrine, 
Where  Truth  conspicuous  with  her  sister-twina. 
The  undivided  partners  of  her  sway. 
With  Good  and  B^'auty  reigns.     O  let  not  us, 
Lull'd  by  luxurious  Pleasure's  languid  atrain, 
Or  crouching  to  the  frowns  of  Bigot  rage, 
O  let  us  not  a  moment  pause  to  join 
That  godlike  band.     And  if  the  gracious  Powef 
Who  first  awaken'd  my  untutor'd  song. 
Will  to  my  invocation  breathe  anew 
The  tuneful  spirit ;  then  through  all  our  paths, 
Ne'er  shall  the  sound  of  this  devoted  lyre 
Be  wanting  ;  whether  on  the  rosy  mead, 
When  summer   smiles,   to  warm  the  melting 

heart 
Of  Luxury's  allurement ,  whether  firni 
Against  the  torrent  and  the  stubborn  hill 
To  urge  told  Virtue's  unremitting  nerve. 


PLEAStJHES    OF    li»l AGINATION.  139 

And  wake  the  strong  divinity  oi'  soul 

That  conquers  Chance  aud  Fate  ;  or  whether 

siruck 
For  sounds  of  triumph,  to  proclaim  her  toils 
Upon  the  loiiy  summit,  rourid  her  brow 
To  twine  the  wreath  of  incorruptive  praise  ; 
To  trace  her  hallow'd  light  throughfuture  worlds, 
And  bless  Heaven's  image  in  the  heart  of  man. 

Thus  with  a  faithful  aim  have  we  presumed, 
Adventurous,  to  delineate  Nature's  form  ; 
Whether  in  vast  majestic  pomp  array'd, 
Or  dresi  for  pleasing  wonder,  or  serene 
In  Beauty's  rosy  smile.     It  now  remains.. 
Through  various  being's  fair-proportion'd  scale, 
To  trace  the  rising  lustre  of  her  charms, 
From  their  first  twilight,  shining  forth  at  length 
To  full  meridian  splendour.     Of  Degree 
The  least  and  lowliest,  in  the  effusive  warmth 
Of  colours  minghng  with  a  random  blaze, 
Doth  beauty  dwell.     Then  higher  in  the  line 
And  variation  of  determined  shape. 
Where   Truth's    eternal  measures  mark   the 

bound 
Of  circle,  cube,  or  sphere.     The  third  ascent 
Unites  this  varied  symmetry  of  parts 
With  colour's  bland  allurement  ;  as  the  pearl 
Shines  in  the  concave  of  its  azure  bed 
And  painted  shells  indent  their  speckled  wreath. 
Then  more  attractive  rise  the  blooming  forms, 


140  akenside's 

Through  which  the  breath  of  Nature  nas  infused 
Her  genial  power  to  draw  with  pregnant  veins 
Nutritious  muistfire  from  the  bo'.inteous  Earth, 
in  fruit  and  seed  proUtic :  thus  the  flowers 
Their  purple  honours  with  the  spring  resume  ; 
And  thus  the  slatf  ly  tree  with  Autumn  bends 
With  blushing  treasures.     But  more  lovely  stiK 
Is  Nature's  charm,  where  to  the  full  consent 
Of  comphcated  members  to  the  i.loora 
Of  colour,  and  the  vital  change  of  growth, 
Life's  holy  flame  and  piercing  sense  are  given, 
And  active  motion  :?peaks  iho  temper'd  soul : 
So  moves  the  bird  of  Juno  ;  so  the  steed 
With  rival  ardour  beats  the  dusky  plain, 
And  faithful  dogs,  with  eager  airs  of  joy, 
Salute  their  fellows.     Thus  doth  Beauty  dwell 
There  most  conspicuous,  even  in  outward  shape, 
Where  dawns  the  high  expression  of  a  mind : 
By  steps  conducting  our  enraptured  search 
To  that  eternal  origin,  whose  pov/er, 
Through  all  the  unbounded  symmetry  of  things 
Like  rays  effulging  from  the  parent  Sun, 
This  endless  mixture  of  her  charms  diffused. 
Mind,   mind   alone,  (bear  ^^•itness    Earth  and 

Heaven  !) 
The  living  fountains  in  itself  contains 
Of  beauteous  and  sublime:  here,  hand  in  hand 
Sit  paramount  the  Graces ;  here  enthroned, 
Celestial  Venus,  with  divinest  airs. 
Invites  the  soul  tc  never-fading  joy. 


PLEASURES    OF    IMAGINATION,  141 

liOok  then  abroad  through  Nature,  to  tl  e  range 

Of  planets,  suns,  and  adamantine  spheres, 

Wheehng  unshaken  through  the  void  immense; 

And  speak,  O  m»iii !  does  this  capacious  scene 

With  half  tha*  kindUng  majesty  dilate 

The  strong  conception,  as  when  Brutus  rose 

Refulgent  from  the  stroke  of  Caesar's  fate, 

Amid  the  crowd  of  patriots  ;  and  his  arm 

Aloft  extending,  Uke  eternal  Jove, 

When   guilt   brings   down  the   thunder,  call'd 

aloud 
On  Tully's  name,  and  shook  his  crimson  stee». 
And  bade  the  father  of  his  country  hail  ? 
For  lo  I   the  tyrant  prostrate  on  the  dust, 
And  Rome  again  is  free  !  is  aught  so  fair 
In  all  the  dewy  landscapes  of  the  Spring, 
In  the  bright  eye  of  Hesper  or  the  Morn, 
In  Nature's  fairest  forms,  is  aught  so  fair 
As  virtuous  Friendship  ?  as  the  candid  blush 
Of  him  wiw  strives  with  fortune  to  be  just  ? 
The  graceful  tear  that  streams  for  others'  woes  * 
Or  the  mild  majesty  of  private  hfe, 
Where  Peace  with  ever-blooming  olive  crowns 
The  gate  ;  where  Honour's  liberal  hands  effuse 
Unemded  treasures,  and  the  snowy  wings 
Of  Innocence  and  Love  protect  the  scene  ? 
Once  more  search,  undismay'd,  the  dark  pro 

found 
Where  Nature  works  in  secret ;  view  the  beds 
Of  mineral  treasure,  and  the  eternal  vault 


142  akenstie's 

That  bounds  the  hoary  Ocean  ;  tracie  the  forrm 
Of  atoms  moving  with  incessant  change 
Their  elemenlal  round  ;  behold  the  seeds 
Of  bein^,  and  the  energy  of  hfe, 
Kindhng  the  mass  with  ever  active  flame  : 
Then  to  the  secrets  of  the  working  mind 
Attentive  turn  ;  from  dim  ol  livion  call 
Her  tieet,  ideal  band ;  and  bid  them,  go! 
Break  through  Time's  barrier,  and  o'ertakc  the 

hour 
That  saw  the  heavens  created  :  then  declare 
If  aught  were  found  in  those  external  scenes 
To  move  thy  wonder  now.     For  what  are  all 
The  forms   which   brute,    unconscious   matte* 

wears, 
Greatness  of  bulk,  or  symmetry  of  parts? 
Not  reaching  to  the  heart,  soon  feeble  grows 
The  superficial  impulse  :  dull  their  charms, 
And  satiate  soon,  and  pall  the  languid  eye. 
Not  so  the  moral  species,  nor  rhe  powers 
Of  genius  and  design  ;  the  ambitious  mind 
There  sees  herself:  by  these  congenial  forms 
Touch' d  and  awaken' d  with  intenser  act 
She  bends  each  nerve,  and  meditates  well-pleased 
Her  features  in  the  mirror.     For  of  all 
The  inhabitants  of  Earth,  to  man  alone 
Crea'.ive  Wisdom  gave  to  lift  his  eye 
To  Truth's  eternal  mensures;  thence  to  fram* 
The  sacred  laws  of  action  and  of  will, 
Discerning  jv  slice  from  unequal  deetis. 


PIEAS».'"K.Xfc    ()T    rMAGTXATION,  143 

And  tttiiperanct-  from  hWy.     But  beyond 
This  energy  of  Tiu:h,  vvh.Tje  dictates  bind 
A-Ssenting  roason,  the  benignaat  sire, 
To  deck  the  honour' d  paths  o\"  just  and  good. 
Has  added  bright  Irnaffination't)  rays  : 
Where  Virtue,  rising  from  the  awful  depth 
Of  Truth's  mysterious  bosom,  doth  forsake 
The  unadorn'd  condition  of  her  birth  ; 
And,  dress'd  by  Fancy  in  ten  thousand  bue». 
Assumes  a  various  feature,  to  attract. 
With  charms  responsive  to  each  gazor's  eye. 
The  hearts  of  men.     Amid  his  rural  walk, 
The  ingenious  you'h,  whom  solitude  inspires 
With  purest  wishes,  from  the  pensive  shade 
Beholds  her  moving,  like  a  virtrin-muse 
That  wakes  her  lyre  to  some  indulgent  theme 
Of  harmony  and  wonder  ;  while  among 
The  herd  of  servile  minds  her  strenuous  form 
Indignant  flashes  on  the  patriot's  eye, 
And  throusfh  the  roll  of  memory  appeals 
To  ancient  honour,  or,  in  act  serene. 
Yet  watchful,  raises  ihe  majesuc  sword 
Of  public  power,  from  dark  ambition's  reach 
To  guard  the  sacred  volume  of  the  laws. 

f  Jenius  of  ancient  Greece  !  whose  faithful  stept 
Well-pleased  T  follow  through  the  sacred  paths 
Of  Nature  and  of  Science  ;   nurse  divine 
Of  heroic  deeds  and  fair  desires  ! 
O  !  let  the  breath  of  thy  extended  praise 


(44  AKEXSIDE  « 

tnspiie  my  kindling  bosom  to  the  height 
Ot  this  untenipied  theme.     Nor  be  my  thoughts 
Presumptuous  counted,  it  amid  the  calm 
That  soothes  this  vernal  evening  into  smilea 
I  steal  impatient  from  the  sordid  haunts 
Of  Strite  and  low  Ambition,  to  attend 
Thy  sacred  presence  in  the  sylvan  shade, 
By  their  malignant  footsteps  ne'er  profaned. 
Descend  propitious  !  to  my  favoa''deye; 
Such  in  thy  mien,  thy  warm  exalted  air, 
As  when  the  Persian  tyrant,  foil'd  and  stung 
With  shame  and  desperation,  gnash' d  his  teett 
To  see  thee  rend  the  pageants  of  his  throne  ; 
And  at  tiie  lightning  of  thy  lifted  spear 
Crouch' d  like  a  slave.     Bring  all   thy  martial 

spoils, 
Thy  palms,  thy  laurels,  thy  triumphal  songs, 
Thy  smiUng  band  of  a::s,  thy  godlike  sires 
Of  civil  wisdom,  thy  heroic  youth 
Warm  from  the  schools  of  glory.  Guide  my  way 
Throush  fair  Lyceum's  walk,  th^  £reen  retreats 
Of  Academus,  and  tne  thytny  vaie. 
Where,  oft  enchanted  with  Socratic  so  mds, 
Ilissus  pure  devolved  his  tuneful  stream. 
In  gentler  murmurs.     From  the  blooming  store 
Of  these  auspicious  fields,  may  I  unblamed 
Transpla-t  some  living  blossoms  to  adorn 
j\ly  native  clime  :  while  far  above  the  flight 
Of  Fancy's  pluuic  aspiring  1  unlock 
The  springs  oi'  ancient  Wisdom  !  while  I  join 


PUtASTJRES  OF   IMAGINATION.  146 

Thy  name,  thrice  -  honour  d  !  witn  me  immortal 

praise 
Of  Nature,  while  to  my  coiiip  itriot  youth 
I  point  the  hifih  example  of  thy  sons, 
And  tune  to  Attic  themes  the  British  iff. 


ARSNSIDE'P 

PlFASLRESOr    .xM AGINATION! 

U06k   ^1. 


ARGUMENT. 


The  ocpaialkn  of  the  works  of  imaginalion  frcin 
philosophy,  the  cause  of  their  abuse  among  the  mo- 
derns. Prospect  of  their  reunion  under  the  influence 
of  public  liberty.  Enumeration  of  accidental  plea- 
sures, which  increase  the  eflfect  of  objects  delightful 
to  the  imagination.  The  pleasures  of  sense.  Par- 
ticular circumstances  of  the  mind  Discovery  of 
truth.  Perception  of  contrivance  and  design.  Eino- 
i^on  of  the  passions.  All  the  natural  passions  partake 
of  a  pleasing  sensation;  with  the  final  cause  of  thii 
eorstil  ation  illustrated  by  an  allegorical  vision,  an^ 
exeiu|ilm«d  a  sorrow,  pity,  terror,  and  indignation. 


148 


TH8 

PLEASURES  OF  IMAGINATION 

BOOK  II 

When  shall  the  laurel  and  the  vocal  stnng 
Resume  their  honours  ?    When  shall  we  be*Qold 
The  tuneful  tongue,  the  Promethean  hand, 
Aspire  to  ancient  praise  ?     Alas  !  how  faint, 
How  slow,  the  dawn  of  Beauty  and  of  Truth 
Breaks  the  reluctant  shades  of  Gothic  night, 
Which  yet  involve  the   nations !     Long  they 

groan' d 
Beneath  the  furies  of  rapacious  Force  ; 
Oft  as  the  gloomy  North,  with  iron  swarms 
Tempestuous  pouring  from  her  frozen  caves, 
Blasted  the  Italian  shore,  and  swept  the  works 
Of  Liberty  and  Wisdom  down  the  gulf 
Of  all-devouring  night.     As  long  immured 
In  noontide  darkness  by  the  ghmmering  lamp. 
Each  Muse  and  each  fair  Science  pined  away 
The  sordid  hours  :  while  foul,  barbarian  hands 

149 


150  akenside's 

Their  mysteries  profaned,  unstrung  Vac  lye, 
And  chain'd  the  soaring  oinion  down  to  Earth. 
At  last  the  Muses  rose,  an  i  spurn' d  their  bounds, 
And,  wildly  warbling,  scatter'd  as  they  flew, 
Their  blooming  wreaths   from  fair   Valclusa'a 

bowers 
To  Arno's  myrtle  border,  and  the  shor^ 
Of  soft  Parthenope.     But  still  the  rage 
Of  dire  Ambition  and  gigantic  Power, 
From  public  aims  and  from  the  busy  walk 
Of  civil  Commerce,  drove  the  bolder  train 
Of  penetrating. Science  to  the  cells. 
Where  studious  Ease  consumes  the  silent  honr 
In  shadowy  searches  and  unfruitful  care. 
Thus  from  their  guardians  torn,  the  tender  arta 
Of  mimic  Fancy,  and  harmonious  Joy, 
To  priestly  domination  and  the  lust 
Of  lawless  courts,  their  amiable  toii 
For  three  inglorious  ages  have  resign'd, 
In  vain  reluctant :  and  Torquato's  tongue 
Was  tuned  for  slavish  paeans  at  the  throne 
Of  tinsel  pomp  :    and  Raphael's  magic  hand 
Eflfused  its  fair  creation  to  enchant 
The  fond  adoring  herd  in  Latian  fanes 
To  blind  behef ;  while  on  their  prostrate  neckf 
The  sable  tyrant  plants  his  heel  secure. 
But  now,  behold  !  the  radiant  era  dawns, 
When  Freedom's  ample  fabric,  fix'd  at  length 
For  endless  years  on  Albion's  happy  shore 
In  full  proportion,  once  moi'e  shall  extend 


PLEASTTKES   C  :■   IMAGINATION.  151 

To  all  the  kindred  powers  of  social  bliss, 

A  common  mansion,  a  parental  roof. 

There  shall  the  Virtues,  there  shall  Wisdom's 

train, 
Their  long-lost  friends  rejoining,  as  of  old, 
Embrace  the  smiling  family  of  Arts, 
The  Muses  and  the  Graces.     Then  no  more 
Shall  Vice,  distracting  their  dehcious  gifts 
To  aims  abhorr'd,  with  high  distaste  and  scorn 
Turn  from  their  charms  the  philosophic  eye, 
The  patriot-bosom  ;  then  no  more  the  paths 
Of  public  care  or  intellectual  toil. 
Alone  by  footsteps  haughty  and  severe 
In  gloomy  state  be  trod  :  the  harmonious  Muee, 
And  her  persuasive  sisters,  then  shall  plant 
Their  sheltering  laurels  o'er  the  black  ascent, 
And  scatter  flowers  along  the  rugged  way. 
Arm'd  with  the  lyre,  already  have  we  dared 
To  pierce  divine  Philosophy's  retreats, 
And  teach  the  Muse  her  lore  ;  already  strove 
Their  long-divided  honours  to  unite, 
Vhile  tempering  this  deep  argument  we  sang 
Of  Truth  and  Beauty.    Now  the  same  glad  task 
Impends ;  now  urging  our  ambitious  toil, 
We  hasten  to  recount  the  various  springs 
Of  adventitious  pleasure  which  adjoin 
Their  grateful  influence  to  the  prime  efTect 
Of  objects  grand  or  beauteous,  and  enlarge 
The  complicated  joy.     The  svveets  of  sense, 
Do  thev  not  oft  with  kind  accession  flow 


L52  akenside's 

To  raise  harmonious  Fancy's  ijative  charm  t 
So  while  we  taste  the  fragrance  of  the  rose, 
Glows  not  her  blush  the  fairer  ?  While  we  v'ew 
Amid  the  noontide  walk  a  Umpid  rill 
Gush  through  the  trickling  herbage,  to  the  thirs! 
Of  Summer  yielding  the  delicious  draught 
Of  cool  refreshment ;  o'er  the  mossy  brink 
Shines  not  the  surface  clearer,  and  the  waves 
With  sweeter  music  murmur  as  they  flow  ? 

Nor  this  alone  ;  the  various  lot  of  hfe 
Oft  from  external  circumstance  assumes 
A  moment's  disposition  to  rejoice 
In  those  delights  which  at  a  different  hour 
Would  pass  unheeded.    Fair  the  face  of  Sprinj 
When  rural  songs  and  odours  wake  the  Mora 
To  every  eye  ;  hut  how  much  more  to  his 
Round  whom  the  bed  of  sickness  long  diffused 
Its  melancholy  gloom  !  how  doubly  fair, 
When  first  with  fresh-born  vigour  he  inhales 
The  balmy  breeze,  and  fr-els  the  blessed  Sun 
Warm  at  his  bosom,  from  the  springs  of  life 
Chasing  oppressive  damp-s  and  languid  pain  ! 

Or  shall  I  mention,  where  crleslial  Truth 
Her  awful  light  discloses,  to  bestow 
A  more  majestic  pompon  Beauty's  frame  ? 
For   man  loves   knowledge,  and  the  beams  o! 

Truth 
More  w  jlcorae  touch  his  understanding's  p.)»«. 


PLEASURES    OF    IMAGINATION.  153 

Than  all  the  blandishments  of  sound  his  ear, 
Than  all  of  taste  his  tongue.     Nor  ever  yet 
The  melting  rainbow's  vernal-liactared  hues 
To  me  have  shone  so  pleasing  as  whm  Tirst 
The  hand  of  Science  pointed  out  the  pa:h  . 
In  which  the  sunbeams  gleaming  from  the  west 
Fall  on  the  watery  cloud,  whose  darksome  veil 
Involves  the  orient ;  and  that  trickling  shower 
Piercing  through  every  crystalline  convex 
Of  clustering  dew-drops  to  their  flight  opposed 
Recoil  at  length  where  concave  all  behind 
The  internal  surface  on  each  glassy  orb 
Repels  their  forward  passage  into  air  ; 
That  thence  direct  they  seek  the  radiant  goal 
From  which  their  course  began ;  and,  as   they 

strike 
In  different  lines,  the  gazer's  obvious  eye, 
Assumes  a  different  lustre,  through  thebrede 
Of  colours  changing  from  the  splendid  rose, 
To  the  pale  violet's  dejected  hue. 

Or  shall  we  touch  that  kind  access  of  jo*. 
That  springs  to  each  fair  object,  while  we  trace 
Through  all  its  fabric.  Wisdom's  artful  aim 
Disposing  every  part,  and  gaining  still 
By  means  proportion'd  her  benignant  end  ? 
Bpeak,  ye,  the  pure   delight,  whose  favour'd 

steps 
The  lamp  of  Science  through  the  jealous  maae 
Of  Nat  ire  guides,  when  haply  you  reveal 


154  akenside's 

Het  geoiet  honours  :  whether  in  the  skv. 

The  beauteous  laws  of  hght,  the  central  powerg 

That  wheel  the  pensile  planets  round  the  year ; 

Whether  in  wonders  of  the  rolUiig  deep, 

Or  the  rijh  fruits  of  all-sustaining  earth, 

Or  fine-adjusted  springs  of  life  and  sense, 

Ye  scan  the  counsels  of  their  author's  hand. 

What,  when  to  raise  the  meditated  scene, 
The  flame  of  passion  through  the  struggling  soul 
Deep-kindled,  shows  across  that  sudden  blaze 
The  object  of  its  rapture,  vast  of  size, 
With  fiercer  colours  and  a  nicrht  of  shade  ? 
What  ?  Uke  a  ilo-m  from  their  capacious  bed 
The  sounding   seas   o'erwlielming,    when   the 

might 
Of  these  eruptions,  working  from  the  depth 
Of  man's  strong  apprehension,  shakes  hisfi^ame 
Even  to  the  base  ;  from  every  naked  sense 
Of  pain  or  pleasure  dissipating  all 
Opinion's  feeble  coverings,  and  the  veil 
Spun  from  the  cobweb  fashion  of  the  times 
To  hide  the  feeling  heart  ?  Then  Mature  speaka 
Her  genuine  language,  and  the  words  of  men. 
Big  with  the  very  motion  of  their  souls, 
Declare  with  what  accumulated  force 
The  impetuous  nerve  of  passion  urges  on 
The  native  wiight  and  energy  of  things. 

Yet  more :   her   honours  where   nor  beauty 
clains 


PLEASURES  OF    IMAGINATION.  153 

Noi  shows  of  good  the  thirsty  sense  allure, 
From  Passion's  power  alone  our  nature  holds 
Essential  pleasure.     Passion's  fierce  illaspe 
Rouses  the  mind's  whole  fabric ;  with  supplies 
Of  daily  impulse  keeps  the  elastic  powers 
Intensely  poised,  and  polishes  anew 
By  that  colHsion  all  the  fine  machine  : 
Else  rust  would  rise,  and  foulness  by  degrees 
Encumbering,  choke  at  last  what  Heaven  de- 
sign'd 
For  ceaseless  motion  and  a  round  of  toil. 
—But  say,  does  every  passion  thus  to  man 
Administer  delight  ?     That  name  indeed 
Becomes  the  rosy  breath  of  Love  ;  becomes 
The  radiant  smiles  of  Joy,  the  applauding  hand 
Of  Admiration  :  but  the  bitter  shower 
That  Sorrow  sheds  upon  a  brother's  grave, 
But  the  dumb  palsy  of  nocturnal  Fear, 
Or  those  consuming  fires  that  gnaw  the  heart 
Of  panting  Indignation,  find  we  there 
To  move  delight  ? — Then  listen  while  my  tongua 
The  nnalter'd  will  of  Heaven  -vith  faithful  awe 
Reveals  ;  what  old  Harmodius.  wont  to  teach 
My  early  age  ;  Harmodius,  who  had  weigh'd 
Within  his  learned  mmd  whate'er  the  schools 
Of  Wisdom,  or  thy  lonely- whispering  voice 
O  fahhful  Nature  !  dictate  of  the  laws 
Which  govern  and  support  this  mighty  frame 
Of  universal  being.     Oft  the  hours 
From  morn  to  ave  have  stolen  unmark'd  away 


56  akenside's 

While  mute  attention  hung  upon  his  lips 
As  thus  the  sa^e  his  awful  tale  began. 

"  'Tvvasin  the  windings  of  an  ancient  wood, 
When  spotless  youth  withsohtude  resigns 
To  sweet  philosophy  the  studious  day, 
What  time  pale  Autumn  shades  the  silent  eve, 
Musing  I  roved.     Of  good  and  evil  much, 
And  much  of   mortal   man,  my  thoughts  re 

volved ; 
When  starting  full  on  Fancy's  gushing  eye 
Tiie  mournful  image  of  Parthenia'sfate, 
That  hour,  O  long  beloved  and  long  deplored  ! 
When  blooming  youth,  nor  gentlest  Wisdom'i 

arts. 
Nor  Hymen's  honours  gather'd  for  thy  brow, 
Nor  all  thy' lover's,  all  thy  father's  tears. 
Avail'd  to  snatch  thee  from  the  cruel  grave; 
Thy  agonizing  looks,  thy  last  farewell, 
Struck  to  the  inmost  feeling  of  my  soul 
As  with    the  hand  of  Death.     At  once   the 

shade 
More  horrid  nodded  o'er  me,  and  the  winds 
With  hoarser  murmuring  shook  the  branches 

Dark 
As  midnight  storms,  the  scene  of  human  things 
Appear' d  before  me  :  deserts,  burning  sands, 
Where  the  parch'd  adder  dies :  the  frozen  south, 
And  Desolation  blasting  all  the  west 
W/th  rapine  and  with  murder :  tyrant  Power 


PLEASITRES    OF    IMAGHNAT:0N.  15? 

Here  sits  enthroned   with  blood ;    the  baleful 

charms 
Of  Superstition  there  infect  the  skies, 
And  turn  the  Sua  to  horror.  Gracious  Heaven  * 
What  is  the  life  of  man  ?     Or  cannot  these, 
Not  these  portents  thy  awful  will  suffice  ? 
That,  propagated  thus  beyond  their  scope, 
They  rise  to  act  their  cruelties  anew 
In  my  afHicted  bosom,  thus  decreed 
The  universal  sensitive  of  pain. 
The  wretched  heir  of  evils  not  its  own ! 

"  Thus  I  impatient :  when  at  once  eflfused, 
A  flashing  torrent  of  celestial  day 
Burst  through  the  shadowy  void.     Whh  slew 

descent 
A  purple  cloud  came  floating  through  the  sky 
And,  poised  at  length  witnin  the  circUng  trees, 
Hung  obvious  to  my  view  ;  till  opening  wide 
Its  lucid  orb,  a  more  than  human  form 
Emerging  lean'd  majestic  o'er  my  head, 
And  instant  thunder  shook  the  conscious  grove 
Then  melted  into  air  the  liquid  cloud. 
Then  all  the  shining  Nision  stood  reveal' d. 
A  wreath  of  palm  his  ample  forehead  bound, 
And  o'er  his  shoulder  mantling  to  his  knee, 
Flow'd  the  transparent  robe,  around  his  waist 
Collected  with  a  radiant  zone  of  gold 
Ethereal  ;  there  in  mystic  signs  engraved, 
^  read  his  office  High,  and  sacred  name, 


158  akexside's 

Genius  of  human-kind.     Appafl'd  I  gazed 
The  godlike  presence  ;  for  atlawarl  his  brow 
Displeasure,  tempered  %\'it_h  a  mild  concern, 
Look'd  down  reluctant  on'me,  and  his  words 
Like   distant    thunders   broke  the    murmuring 


"  '  Vain  are  thy  thoughts,  0  child  of  mortal 
birth  ! 
And  impotent  thy  tongue.     Is  thy  short  span 
Capacious  of  this  universal  frame  ? 
Thy  wisdom  all  sufficient  ?     Thou,  alas  ! 
Dost  thou  aspire  to  judge  between  the  Lord 
Of  Nature  and  his  works  ?  to  hft  thy  voice 
Against  the  sovereign  order  he  decreed, 
All  good  and  lovely  ?  to  blaspheme  the  bands 
Of  tenderness  innate,  atid  social  love, 
Holiest  of  things  I  by  which  the  general  orb 
Of  being,  as  by  adamantine  hnks, 
Was  drawn  to  perfect  union,  and  sustain'd 
From  everlasting  ?     Hast  thou  felt  the  pangs 
Of  softening  sorrow,  of  indignant  zeal, 
So  grievous  to  the  soul,  as  thence  to  wish 
The  ties  of  Xature  broken  from  thy  frame ; 
That  so  thy  selfish,  unrelenting  heart 
Might  cease  to  mourn  its  lot,  no  longer  theii 
The  wretched  heir  of  evils  not  its  own  ? 
O  fair  benevolence  of  generous  minds! 
0  man  by  Na  ure  form'd  for  all  mankiuil* 


PLEASUkES    OF    IMAGINATION,  li>9 

"  lie  spcke  ;  abash'd  and  silent  I  remain'd, 
A.S  conscious  of  tny  tongue's  oifence,  and  awed 
Bel.bre  his  presence,  though  my  secret  soul 
Disdaui'd  the  imputation.     On  the  ground 
I  fix'd  my  eyes  ;  till  from  his  airy  couch 
He  stoop'd  sublime,  and  touching  with  his  hand 
My  dazzling  forehead,    '  Raise  thy  sight,'  he 
cried, 
And  let  thy  sense  convince  thy  erring  longte.' 

"I  look'd,   and    lo !    the   former   scene  waa 

changed  ; 
For  verdant  alleys  and  surrounding  trees, 
A  sohtary  prospect,  wide  and  wild, 
Rush'd  on  my  senses.     'Twas  an  horrid  pile 
Of  hills,  with  many  a  shaggy  forest  mix'd, 
With  many  a  sable  cliff  and  glittering  stream. 
Aloft,  recumbent  o'er  the  hanging  ridge, 
The  brown  woods  waved  ;  while  ever- trickling 

springs 
Wash'd  from  the  naked  roots  of  oak  and  pine 
The  crumbhng  soil ;  and  still  at  every  fall 
Down  the  steep  windings  of  the  channel'd  rock, 
Remurmuring  rush'd  the  congregated  floods 
With  hoarser  inundation  ;  till  at  last 
They  reach'd  a  grassy  plain,  which  from  tha 

skirts 
Of  that  high  d^^sert  spread  her  verdant  lap, 
And  drank  tbi  gushing  moisture   where,  con 

fined 


Ifirt  akenside's 

[n  one  smooth  current,  o'er  the  lilied  Aale 
Clearer  than  glass  it  flow'd.     Autumnal  spoils. 
Luxuriant  spreading  to  the  rays  of  morn, 
Blush' d  o'er   the  cliffs,  whose  half  encircliaf 

mound 
As  in  a  sylvan  theatre  inclosed 
That  flowery  level.     On  the  river's  brink 
I  spied  a  fair  pavilion,  which  diffused 
Its  floating  umbrage  'rnid  the  silver  shade 
Of  osiers.     Now  the  western  Sun  reveal'd 
Between  two  parting  cliffs  his  golden  orb. 
And  pour'd  across  th«  shadow  of  the  hills, 
On  rocks  and  floods,  a  yellow  stream  of  light 
That  cheer' d  the  solemn  scene.     My  listening 

powers 
Were  awed,  and  every  thought  in  silence  hung 
And  wondering  expectation.     Then  the  ^oice 
Of  that  celestial  power,  the  mystic  show 
Declaring  thus  my  deep  attention  call'd. 

"  '  Inhabitants  of  Earth,  to  whom  is  given 
The  gracious  ways  of  Providence  to  learn, 
Receive  my  sayings  with  a  steadfast  ear — 
Know  then,  the  sovereign  Spirit  of  the  woild. 
Though,  self-collected  from  eternal  time, 
Within  his  own  deep  essence  he  beheld 
The  bounds  of  true  felicity  complete ; 
Yet  by  immense  benignity  inclined 
To  spread  around  him  that  primeval  joy 
Which  fiU'd  himself,  he  raised  his  plastic  arm, 


PLEISTTRES    OF   IMAGINATION.  161 

Ar.J  sounded  through  the  hollow  depth  of  space 
The  strong,  creative  mandate.     Straight  arose 
These  heavenly  orbs,  the  glad  abodes  of  life 
Effusive  kindled  by  his  breath  divine 
Through  endless  forms  of  being.     Each  inhaled 
From  him  its  portion  of  the  vital  flame, 
In  measure  such,  that,  from  the  wide  complex 
Of  co-existent  orders,  one  might  rise, 
One  Order,  all-involving  and  entire, 
He  too  beholding  in  the  sacred  light 
Of  his  esse  .iial  reason,  all  the  shapes 
Of  swift  contingence,  all  successive  ties 
Of  action  propagated  through  the  sum 
Of  possible  existence,  he  at  once, 
Down  the  long  series  of  eventful  time, 
So  fix'd  the  dates  of  being,  so  disposed, 
To  every  living  soul  of  every  kind 
The  field  of  motion  and  the  hour  of  rest, 
That  all  conspired  to  his  supreme  design, 
To  universal  good  :  with  full  accord 
Answering  the  mighty  model  he  had  chosen 
The  best  and  fairest  of  unnumber'd  worlds. 
That  lay  from  everlasting  in  the  store 
Of  his  divine  conceptions.     Nor  content, 
By  one  exertion  of  creative  power 
His  goodness  to  reveal ;  through  every  age. 
Through  every  moment  up  the  tract  of  time. 
His  parent-hand,  with  every  new  increase 
Of  happiness  and  virtue,  has  adorn'd 
The  vast  harmonious  frame  :  his  parent-hand, 
11 


162  akenside's 

From  the  mute  shell-fish  gasping  on  tht  shore, 
To  men,  to  angels,  to  celestial  minds, 
For  ever  leads  the  generations  on 
To  higher  scenes  of  being  ;  while,  supplied 
From  day  to  day  %vith  his  enhvening  breath. 
Inferior  orders  in  succession  rise 
To  fill  the  void  below.     As  flame  ascends, 
As  bodies  to  their  proper  centre  move, 
As  the  poised  ocean  to  the  attracting  Moon 
Obedient  swells,  and  every  headlong  stream 
Devolves  its  winding  waters  to  the  main  ; 
So  all  things  which  have  life  aspire  to  God, 
The  sun  of  being,  boundless,  unimpair'd, 
Centre  of  souls  !     Nor  does  the  faithful  voice 
Of  Nature  cease  to  prompt  their  eager  steps 
Aright ;  nor  is  the  care  of  Heaven  withheld 
From  granting  to  the  task  proportioned  aid ; 
That  in  their  stations  all  may  persevere 
To  chmb  the  ascent  of  being,  and  approach 
For  ever  nearer  to  the  life  divine. 

*' '  That  rocky  pile  thou  see'st,  that  verdant 

lawn, 
Fresh-waier'd  from  the   mountams.      Let  Am 

scene 
Paint  in  thy  fancy  the  primeval  seat 
Of  man.  and  where  the  will  supreme  ordain'd 
His  mansion,  that  pavilion  fair  difirised 
Along  the  shady  brink  ;  in  this  recess 
To  wear  'he  appointed  season  of  his  youth, 


PLEASURES    OF   IJMA  ,  INATION,  163 

Till  riper  hours  should  open  to  his  toil 

The  high  communion  of  superior  minds, 

Of  consecrated  heroes  and  of  gods. 

Nor  did  the  Sire  Omnipotent  forget 

His  tender  bloom  to  cherish  ;  nor  withheld 

Celestial  footsteps  from  his  green  abode. 

Oft  from  the  radiant  honours  of  his  throne, 

He  sent  whom  most  he  loved,  the  sovereign  fail^ 

The  effluence  of  his  glory,  whom  he  placed 

Before  his  eyes  for  ever  to  behold  ; 

The  goddess  from  whose  inspiration  flows 

The  toil  of  patriots,  the  delight  of  friends  , 

Without  whose  work  divine,  in  Heaven  or  Earta, 

Naught  lovely,  naught  propitious,  comes  to  pass, 

Nor  hope,  nor  praise,  nor  honour.    Her  the  Sire 

Gave  it  in  charge  to  rear  the  blooming  mind, 

The  folded  powers  to  open,  to  direct 

The  growth  luxuriant  of  his  young  desires, 

And  from  the  laws  of  this  majestic  world 

To  teach  him  what  was  good.     As   thus   the 

nymph 
Her  daily  care  attended,  by  her  side 
With  constant  steps  her  gay  companions  stay'd 
The  fair  Euphrosyne,  the  gentle  queen 
Of  smiles,  and  graceful  gladness,  and  dehghts 
That  cheer  alike  the  hearts  of  mortal  men 
And  powers  immortal.     See  the  shining  pair ! 
Behold,  where  from  his  dwelling  now  disclosed, 
They  quit  their  youthful  ;.harge  and  seek  the 

skies.' 


IGi  akenside's 

'  I  look'd,  aiid  on  the  flowery  turf  there  stood, 
Be  Avecn  two  radiant  forms,  a  saiiling  youth, 
Whose  tender  cheeks  display' d  the  vernal  flowei 
Of  beauty  ;  sweetest  innocence   llumed 
His  bashful  eyes,  and  on  his  polish'd  brow 
Sate  young  Simplicity.     With  fond  regard 
He  -view'd   the   associates,  as   their  steps  tjey 

moved ; 
The  younger  chief  his  ardent  eyes  detain'd, 
With  mild  regret  invoking  her  return. 
Bright  as  the  star  of  evening  she  appear'd 
Amid  the  dusky  scene.     Eternal  youlh 
O'er  all  her  form  its  glowing  honours  breathed, 
And  smiles  eternal  from  her  Caudid  eyes 
Flow'd,  hke  the  dewy  lustre  of  the  morn 
Effusive  trembhng  on  the  placid  waves. 
The  spring  of  Heaven  had  shed  i:s  blushing  ppoils 
To  bind  her  sable  tresses :  full  diffused 
Her  yellow  mantle  floated  in  thp  breeze  ; 
And  in  her  hand  she  waved  a  living  branch 
Kich  with  immortal  fruits,  of  power  to  calm 
The  wratht\il  heart,  and  from  the  brightening 

eyes 
To  chase  the  cloud  of  sadness.     More  sublime 
The  heavenly  partner  moved.    The  prime  of  cige 
Composed  tier  steps.     The  preserce  of  a  god, 
High  on  the  circle  of  her  brow  enthroned, 
From  each  maiestic  morion  darted  awe, 
Devoted  awe     till,  cherish' d  by  her  looks 
Benevoleiu  "mi  meet,  confiding  love 


L=. 


■JtEASUKES    OF    IMAGIiXATlOir  ]6o 

To  filial  rapture  sol.'en'd  all  the  soul. 

Free  iu  her  graceiul  hand  she  poised  the  •^woi'd 

Of  chaste  dominion.     An  heroic  crown 

Display'd  the  old  simplicity  oi  pomp 

Around  her  honour'd  head.     A  matron's  robe, 

White  as  the  sunshine  streams  through  vernal 

clouds, 
Her  stately  form  invested.     Hand  in  hand 
The  immortal  pair  forsook  the  enamel' d  green, 
Ascending  slowly.     Rays  of  limpid  light 
Gleam'd  round  their  path;  celestial  sounds  wer^ 

heard, 
And  through  the  fragrant  air  ethereal  dews 
Distill'd  around  them  ;  till  at  once  the  clouds 
Disparting  wide  in  midway  sky  withdrew 
Their  airy  veil,  and  left  a  bright  expanse 
Of  empyrean  flame,  where,  spent  and  drown'd. 
Afflicted  vision  plunged  in  vain  to  scan 
What  object  it  involved.     My  feeble  eyes 
Endured  not.     Bendmg  down  to  earth,  I  stood, 
With  dumb  attention.     Soon  a  female  voice, 
As  watery  murmurs  sveet,  or  warbling  shades, 
With  sacred  invocation  ^hus  began. 

"  '  Father  of  gods  and  mortals  I  whose  n'gh 
arm 
With  reins  eternal  guides  the  moving  heavens, 
Bend  thy  propitious  ear.     Behold  well-pleased 
[  seek  to  fmish  thy  divine  decree. 
With  frequent  steos  1  visit  yonder  seat 


IG6  AKEIfSl^iE'S 

Of  man,  thy  offspring;   Irurn  the  tender  seeds 
Of  justice  and  of  wisdom,  to  evolve 
The  latent  honours  ot  his  generous  frame ; 
nil  thy  conducting  hand  shall  raise  his  lot 
From  earth's  dim  scene  to  those  ethereal  waiksi 
The  temple  of  thy  glory.     But  not  me, 
Not  my  directing  voice,  he  oft  requires. 
Or  hears  de light ei'  :   this  en;-hanting  maid, 
l"he  associate  thou  hast  given  me,  her  alone 
He  loves,  O  Father  !   absent,  her  he  craves; 
Vnd  but  ir,  ^er  glad  presence  ever  join'd, 
Rejoice?  ,■  a  in  mine  :   that  all  my  hopes 
This  t'..-  oenignant  purpose  to  luldl, 
I  de'.i^.  uncertain :  and  my  daily  cares 
Ur .fitful  all  and  vain,  unless  by  thee 
F  j\  further  aided  in  the  work  divme.' 

"  She  ceased  ;  a  voice  m  .re  awful  thus  re   fied 
'  O  thou!  in  whom  lOr  ever  1  delight, 
Fairer  than  all  the  iiiliabitants  oi  Heaven 
Best  miage  of  thy  author  !  tar  Irom  thee 
Be  disappointment,  or  disiasie,  or  blame; 
Who,  soon  or  late,  siiall  every  wcrk  luilil, 
And  no  resistance  hnd.     If  man  reiuse 
To  hearken  to  thy  dictates  ;  or  allured 
By  meaner  joys,  to  any  other  power 
Transfer  the  honours  due  to  thee  alone  ; 
That  joy  which  he  pursues  he  ne'er  shall  taste, 
That  pover  in  wtiom  deUghte'h  ne'er  beholiL 
Go  then,   )nce  mora,  and  happ  '  be  'hy  toii  • 


pleasuurs  of  imagij  i  rroN.  167 

Go  then!  but  let  not  this  thy  smiliag  friend 
Partake  thy  footsteps.     In  her  stead,  behold . 
With  thee  the  son  of  Nemesis  I  send ; 
The   fiend   abhorr'd!    whose  vengeance  takea 

account 
Uf  sacred  Order's  violated  laws. 
See  where  he  calls  thee,  burning  to  be  gone. 
Fierce  to  e.xhaust  the  tempest  of  his  wrath 
On  yon  devoted  head.     But  thou,  my  child, 
Control  his  cruel  frenzy,  and  protect 
Thy  tender   charge;    that  when   Despair  shall 

grasp 
His  agonizing  bosom,  he  may  learn, 
Then  he  may  learn  to  love  the  gracious  hand 
Alone  sufficient  in  the  hour  of  ill 
To  save  his  feeble  spirit ;  then  confess 
Thy  genuine  honours,  O  excelling  fair! 
When  all  the  plagues  that  wait  the  deadly  sviU 
Of  this  avenging  demon,  all  the  storms 
Of  night  infernal,  serve  but  to  display 
The  energy  of  thy  superior  charms 
With  mildest  awe  triumphant  o'er  his  rage. 
And  shining  clearer  in  the  horrid  gloom.' 

"  Here  ceased  that  awful  voice,  and  soon  I 
felt 
The  cloudy  curtain  of  refresliing  eve 
Was  closed  once  more,  from  that  immortal  fire 
Bheltenng  my  eyelids.     Looking  up,  I  view'd 
A  vast  gigantic  spectre  striding  on 


168  akenside's 

Through  murmuring  thunders  and  :i  wsste  ol 

clouds, 
With  dreadful  action.     Black  as  night,  his  bi  jw 
Relentless  frowns  involved.     His  savage  hmbs 
With  sharp  impatience  violent  he  wTithed, 
4.S  through  convulsive  anguish ;  and  his  hand, 
Arm'd  with  a  scorpion- lash,  full  ufr  he  raised 
In  madness  to  his  bosom ;  while  his  eyes 
Rain'd  bhter  tears,  and  bellowing  loud,  he  shook 
The  void  \vith  horror.     Silent  by  his  side 
The  virgin  came.     No  discomposure  stirr'd 
Her  features      From    the   glooms  which  hung 

around 
No  stain  of  darkness  mingled  with  the  beam 
Of  her  divine  effulgence.     Now  they  sroop 
Upon  the  river-bank ;  and  now,  to  hail 
His  wonted  guests,  with  eager  steps  advanced 
The  unsuspecting  inmate  of  the  shade. 

"  As  when  a  famish'd  wolf,  that  all  night  long 
Had  ranged  the  Alpine  snows,  by  chance  at 

morn 
Sees  from  a  cliff  incumbent  o  er  tlie  smoke 
Of  some  lone  village,  a  neglected  kid 
That  strays  along  the  wild  for  herb  or  spring; 
Down  from  the  winding  ridge  he  sweeps  amain, 
And  thinks  he  tears  him:  so  with  tenfold  rage, 
The  monster  sprung  remorseless  on  his  pxey. 
Amazed  the  stripUng  stood  :  %\'ith  pannng  breasi 
Fefcbly  he  pourV;  the  lamentable  wail 


PLEASURES   OF   IMi  ilNA.ION.  169 

Of  Helpless  consternation,  struck  at  once. 
And  rooted  to  the  ground.     The  queen  beheld 
His  terror,  and  with  looks  of  tenderesl  care 
Advanced  to  save  him.     Soon  the  tyrant  fek 
Her  awful  power.     His  keen,  tempestuous  arm 
Hung  nerveless,  nor  descended  where  his  rage 
Had  aim'd  the  deadly  blow :    then  dumb  retired 
With  sullen  rancour.     Lo  !  the  sovran  maid 
Folds  with  a  mother's  arms  the  fainting  boy, 
Till  hfe  rekindles  in  his  rosy  cheek  ; 
Then  grasps  his  hands,  and  cheers  liim  with  hei 
tongue. 

"  '  O  wake  thee,  rouse  thy  spirit  1     Shall  the 
spite 
Of  yon  tormenter  thus  appal  thy  heart. 
While  I,  thy  friend  and  guardian,  am  al  hand 
To  rescue  and  to  heal  ?     O  let  thy  soul 
Remember,  what  the  will  of  Heaven  ordahis 
Is  ever  good  for  all ;  and  if  for  all, 
Then  good  for  thee.     Nor  only  by  the  warmth 
And  soothing  sunshine  of  delightful  things, 
Do  minds  grow  up  and  flom-ish.     Oft  mislea 
By  that  bland  hght,  the  young  unpractised  viewa 
Of  reason  wander  through  a  fatal  road. 
Far  from  their  native  aim  ;  as  if  to  he 
Inglorious  in  the  fragrant  shade,  and  wait 
The  soft  access  ot  ever-circUng  joys, 
Were  all  the  end  of  being.     Avsk  thyself 
This  pleasing  error  did  it  uevei  lull 


170  AKENSIDE   5 

Thy  wishes  ?     Has  thy  constant  heart  refused 
The  silken  fetters  of  delicious  ease  ? 
Or  when  divine  Euphrosyne  appear'd 
Within  this  dwelling,  did  not  '.hy  desires 
Hang  far  below  the  measure  of  thy  fate. 
Which  I  reveai'd  before  thee  ?  and  thy  eyes 
Impatient  of  m}'  counsels,  turn  away 
To  drink  the  soft  effusion  oi  her  smiles  ? 
Know  then,  for  this  the  everlasting  Sire 
Deprives  thee  of  her  presence,  and  instead. 
O  wise  and  still  benevolent !  ordains 
This  horrid  visage  hither  to  pursue 
My  steps ;  that  so  thy  nature  may  discern 
Its  real  good,  and  what  alone  can  save 
Thy  feeble  sjiint  in  this  hour  of  ill 
From  folly  and  despair.     0  ye'  beloved ! 
Let  not  this  headlong  terror  qui'e  o'erwhelm 
Thy  scatter'd  powers ;  nor  fatal  deem  the  rage 
Of  this  tormenter,  nor  his  proud  assatilr, 
While  I  arr  here  to  vindicate  thy  toil 
Above  the  generous  question  of  thy  arm. 
Brave  by  thy  fears,  and  in  thy_weakiiess  strong 
This  hour  he  triumphs ;  but  confront  his  might. 
And  dare  him  to  the  combat,  then  with  ea.se 
Disarm'd  and  quell'd,  his  fierceness  he  resigns 
To  bondage  and  to  scorn  ;  while  thus  inured 
By  watchful  danger,  by  unceasing  toil, 
The  immortal  mmd,  superior  to  his  fate, 
Amid  the  outrage  of  external  things, 
Fjrm  as  the  soUd  base  of  this  great  world. 


PLEASURES    OF   IMAGINATION.  171 

Rests  on  his  own  foundations.    Blow,  ye  ^iiids! 
Y"e  waves  !  ye  thunders  !  roll  your  tempests  on  j 
Shake,  ye  old  pillars  of  the  marble  sky  ! 
Till  all  its  orbs  and  all  its  worlds  of  fire 
Be  loosen'd  from  their  sea-s ;  yet  still  serene, 
The  unconquer'd  mind   looks  down  upon   the 


v/rei 


And  ever  stronger  as  the  storms  advance, 
(•'irm  through  the  closing  ruin  holds  his  way, 
Where  Nature  calls  him  to  the  destined  goal.' 

"  So  spake  the   goddess ;    while  through  all 
her  frame 
Celesrial  raptures  flow'd,  in  every  word, 
In  every  motion  kindling  warmth  divine 
To  seize  who  listen' d.     Vehement  and  swift. 
As  lightning  fires  the  nromaric  shade 
In  Ethiopian  fields,  the  stripling  felt 
Her  inspiration  catch  his  fervid  soul, 
And,  starting  from  his  languor,  thus  exclaimed  : 

"  Then  let  the  trial  come  !  and  witness  thou, 
If  terror  be  upon  me  ;  if  1  shrink 
To  meet  the  storm,  or  falter  in  my  strength 
When  hardest  it  besets  me.     Do  not  think 
That  I  am  fearful  and  infirm  of  soul, 
As  late  thy  eyes  beheld  ;  for  thou  hast  changed 
My  nature  ;  thy  commanding  voice  has  waked 
My  languid  powers  to  bear  me  boldly  on. 
Where'er  the  will  divine  my  path  ordains 


i72  akensidk's 

Through  toil  or  peril :  only  do  not  thou 

Forsake  me  ;  O  be  thou  for  ever  m  ax, 

That  I  may  hsten  to  thy  sacred  voice, 

And  guide  by  thy  decrees  my  cons^'i^ni  fett 

But  say,  for  ever  are  my  eyes  berea? 

Say,  shall  the  fair  Euphrosyne  not  onre 

Appear  again  to  charm  me  ?    Thou,  in  ITeaven  ' 

O  thou  eternal  arbiter  of  tilings  ! 

Be  thy  great  bidding  done  :  for  who  am  I 

To  question  thy  appointment  ?     Let  the  f^oArii* 

Of  this  avenger  every  morn  o'ercast 

The  cheerful  dawn,  and  every  evci.i'^.g  dan?f 

With  double  night  my  dwelUng;  I  will  learn 

To  hail  them  both,  and  unrepining  bear 

His  hateful  presence  ;  but  permit  my  tongue 

One  glad  request,  and  if  my  deeds  may  fiiid 

Thy  awful  eye  propitious,  O  restore 

The  rosy-featured  maid,  again  to  cheer 

This  lonely  seat,  and  bless  me  with  her  smiles 

"He  spoke;  when  instant  through  the  sabU 

glooms 
With  which  that  furious  presence  had  involved 
The  ambient  air,  a  flood  of  radiance  came 
Swift    as    the    lightning     flash;     the    melting 

clouds 
Flew  diverse,  and  amid  the  blue  serene 
Euphrosyne  appear'd.     With  sprir^hrly  step 
The  nymph  alighted  on  the  irrisfiou^  lawn, 
And  to  her  woadering  audience  thus  began. 


rLEASTTRES    OF   IMAGINATION  1*3 

*'  *  Lo  !  T  am  here  to  answer  to  your  vow  5, 
And  bo  the  meeting  fortunate  !  I  .,ome 
With  joyful  tidings ;  we  shall  part  no  more. — 
Hark  !   how  the  gentle  Echo  from  her  cell 
Talks  through  the  cliffs,  and  murmuring  o'er 

the  stream 
Repeats  the  accents — we  shall  part  no  more. 
O  my  delightful  fricids  !   we'il-pleased  on  high 
The  Father  has  beheld  you,  while  the  might 
Of  that  stern-foe  with  bitter  trial  proved 
Your  equal  doings ;  then  for  ever  spake 
The  high  decree  :   That  thou,  celestial  maid  ! 
Howe'er  that  grisly  pha'.itom  on  thy  steps 
May  sometimes  dare  intrude,  yet  never  more 
Shalt  thou,  descending  to  the  abode  of  man, 
Alone  endure  the  rancour  of  his  arm. 
Or  leave  thy  loved  Euphrosyne  behind.' 

"She  ended  ;  and  the  whole  romantic  scene 
Immediate  vanish' d  ;  rocks,  and  woods,  and  rills.. 
The  rnantling  tent,  and  each  mysterious  form, 
Flew  nke  the  pictures  of  a  morning  dream, 
When  sunshine  fills  the  bed.     Awhile  I  stood 
Perplex' d  and  giddy  ;  till  the  radiant  powe- 
Who  bade  the  visionary  landscape  rise, 
As  up  to  him  I  tum'd,  with  gentlest  loolcs 
Preventing  my  inquiry,  thus  began. 

"  '  There  let  *,hy  soul  acknowledge  it?  com 
plaint 


174  AKEN  side's 

Ho^v  blind !   how  impious  I     There  beho.d  tho 

ways 
Of  Heaven's  eternal  destiny  to  man, 
For  ever  just,  benevolent,  and  wise; 
That  Virtue's  awful  steps,  how  e'er  pursued 
By  vexing  Fortune  and  intrusive  Pain, 
Should  never  be  divided  irom  her  chaste, 
Her  fair  attendant,  Pleasure.     Need  I  urge 
Thy  lardy  thought  ihrough  all  the  various  roimd 
Of  this  existence,  that  thy  softening  soul 
At  length  may  learn  what  energy  the  hand 
Of  Virtue  mingles  in  the  bitter  tide 
Of  passion,  swelling  with  distress  and  pain, 
To  mitigate  the  sharp  with  gracious  drops 
Of  cordial  pleasure  ?     Ask  the  faithful  youth 
Why  the  cold  urn  of  her  whom  long  he  loved 
So  often  fills  his  arms;  so  often  draws 
His  lonely  footsteps  at  the  silent  hour, 
To  pay  the  mournfui  tribute  of  his  tears  ? 
Oh  !  he  will  tell  thee,  that  the  v.ealth  of  worlaa 
Should  ne'er  seduce  his  bosom  to  forego 
That  sacred  hour,  when,  steahng  from  ihf  noise 
Of  care  and  envy,  sweet  remembrance  soothes 
With  Virtue's  kindest  looks  his  achhig  breast. 
And  turns  his  tears  to  rapture. — Ask  the  crowd 
Which  flies  impatient  from  the  village-walk 
To  chmb  the  neighbouring  cliffs,  when  far  belo>* 
The  cruel  winds  have  Ivurl'd  upon  the  coast 
Soir  e  helpless  bark  ;  while  sacred  Pity  \iielt8 
Thj  general  eye,  «  r  Terror's  icy  hand 


li^-^rzcr^ 


PLEASURES   OF   IMAGINATIO:^.  i>5 

Smites  their  distorted  limbs  and  horrent  hair : 
While  every  mother  closer  to  her  breast 
Catches  her  child,  and,  pointing  where  me  waves 
Foam  through  the  shatter' d  vessel,  shrieks  aloud. 
As  one  poor  wretch  that  spreads  his  piteous  arms 
For  succour,  swallow'd  by  the  roaring  surge, 
As  now  another,  dash'd  against  tlic  rock. 
Drops  hfeless  down :   O  !  deemest  thou  indeed 
No  kind  endearment  here  by  Nature  given 
To  mutual  terror  and  Compassion's  tears? 
No  sweetly-melting  softness  v/hich  attracts, 
O'er  all  that  edge  of  pain,  the  social  powers 
To  this  their  proper  action  and  their  end  ? 
-A  sk  thy  own  heart ;    when  at  the  midnight 

hour, 
Slow  through  that  studious  gloom  thy  pausing 

eye, 
Led  by  the  ghmmering  taper,  -roves  around 
The  sacred  volumes  of  the  dea  !,  the  songs 
Of  Grecian  bards,  and  records  writ  by  Fame 
For  Grecian  heroes,  where  the  present  power 
Of  heaven  and  earth  surveys  th'  immortial  page, 
Even  as  a  father  blessing,  while  he  reads 
The  praises  of  his  son.     If  then  thy  soul, 
Spurning  the  yoke  of  theso  inglorious  days, 
Mix  in  their  deeds  and  kindle  with  their  flame; 
Say,  when  the  prospect  blackens  on  thy  view, 
When  rooted  from  the  base,  heroic  states 
Mourn  in  the  dust,  and  trerable  at  the  frown 
Of  curst  Ambition  ;  who  i  the  pious  banil 


176  A.KENSniE*S 

Of  youths  who  fought  for  freedom  and  their  sirca 
Lie  side  by  side  in  gore  ;  m  hen  ruihan  Pride 
Usurps  the  throne  of  Justice,  turns  tire  pomp 
Of  public  power,  the  majesty  of  rule, 
The  sword,  the  laurel,  and  the  purple  robe, 
To  slavish,  empty  pageants,  to  adorn 
A  tyrant's  walk,  and  glitter  in  the  eyes 
Of  such  as  bow  the  knee  ;  when  honour'd  urni 
Of  patriots  and  of  chiefs,  the  awful  bust 
And  stoned  arch,  to  glut  the  coward  rage 
Of  regal  Envy,  strew  the  pul)lic  way 
With  hallow'd  ruins;  when  the  Mu;;c's  haunt, 
The  marble  porch  where  Wisdom  wont  to  tali. 
With  Socrates  or  Tully,  hears  no  more. 
Save  the  hoarse  jargon  of  contentious  monks, 
Or  female  superstition's  midnight  prayer ; 
When  ruthless  Rapine  from  the  hand  of  Time 
Tears  the  destroying  scythe,  with  surer  blow 
To  sweep  the  works  of  glory  from  their  base; 
Till  Desolation  o'er  the  grass-grown  street 
Expands  his  raven-wings,  and  up  the  wail, 
where    senates   once    the   price   of   monarcha 

doom'd, 
Hi:">ses  the  gliding  snake  through  honry  weeds 
That  clasp  the  mouldering  column ;  tiius  defaced, 
Thas  widely  mournful  when  the  prospect  thrilll 
Thy  beatuig  bosom,  when  the  pa'riot's  tear 
Starts  from  thine  eye,  and  thy  extended  arm 
[n  fancy  hurls  the  thundeibolr  of  Jove, 
To  fire  the  impious  wTath  ou  Phihp's  Virow, 


PIJIASURES   OF   IMA>.INATION.  177 

Or  dash  Octavius  from  tiic  ;rophied  car ; 
Say,  does  thy  secret  soul  repine  to  taste 
The  big  distress  ?     Or  woii'.drt   thou  then  ex- 
change 
Those  heart-ennobling  sorrows  for  the  lot 
Of  him  who  sits  amid  the  ^audy  herd 
Of  mute  barbarians  bending  to  his  nod, 
And  bears  aloft  his  gold-invested  from, 
And  says  v/itiiin  hiuisUi^ — I  am  a  ki  "4, 
And  wherefore  should  the  clamorous  voice  of 

woe 
Intrude  upon  mine  ear  V — The.  baleful  dregs 
Of  these  late  ^.t^s.  thiR  i'ljxlorioup  draught 
Of  servitude  and  foiiy,  have  not  yet, 
Blest  be  the  eternal  ilulcr  of  the  world! 
Defiled  io  r;!"h  a  depth.  ofeordiJ  shams 
The  native  honours  of  the  human  soul. 
No   eo  effaced  the  image  of  its  sire  '  " 


AREN3IBE'3 
PLEASURES  OF  IMAGINATION 


ARGUMENT 


Pleasure  in  observing  the  tempers  and  ma  iners 
of  men,  even  where  vicious  or  ahsurd.  The  origin 
of  vice,  from  false  representations  of  the  fancy,  pro- 
ducing false  opinions  concerning  good  and  evil,  in- 
quiry into  ridicule.  The  general  sources  of  ridicule 
in  the  minds  and  cliaraciers  of  men,  enumerated 
Final  cause  of  the  sense  of  ridicule.  The  ioscnil.'lince 
of  certain  aspects  of  inanimate  things  to  the  sensa- 
tions and  properties  of  the  luitid.  The  operations  of 
the  mind  in  the  production  of  the  works  of  im.acir  i- 
tion,  described.  The  secondary  pleasure  from  imita- 
tion. The  benevolent  order  of  the  world  illustiatcd 
in  the  arbitrary  conne.\ion  of  these  pleasures  with 
the  objects  which  excite  them.  Th,;  nature  and  con- 
duct of  taste.  Concluding  with  an  account  -^f  the 
natural  and  moral  advantages  resulting  from  a  se'ui- 
ble  and  well-formed  imagination. 


180 


PLEASURES  OP  IMivGINATlON 


BOOK  III. 


What  wonder,  therefore,  since  the  endearing 

ties 
Of  passion  link  the  universal  kind 
Of  man  so  close,  what  wonder  if  to  searcn 
This  common  nature  through  the  various  change 
Of  sex,  and  age,  and  lortune,  and  ihe  frame 
Of  each  pecuHar.  d'-aw  the  bupv  mind  . 
With  unresisted  charms  ?     'ihe  spacious  west, 
And  all  the  teeming  regions  of  the  south, 
Hold"  not  a  quarry,  to  the  curious  flight 
Of  knowledge,  half  so  tempting  or  to  fair, 
As  man  to  man.     Nor  only  where  the  smiles 
Of  Love  invite  ;  nor.  only  where  the  applause 
Of  cordial  Honour  turns  the  attentive  eye 
On   Virtue's    graceful   deeds.      For   since   th« 

course 
Of  thmgs  external  acts  in  different  ways 
On  human  apprehensions,  as  the  hand 
181 


182  AKExfSIKE'a 

Of  Nature  temper'd  to  a  different  frame 
Peculiar  minds ;  so  haply  where  the  powers 
Of  Fancy  neither  lessen  nor  enlarge 
The  images  of  things,  but  paint,  in  all 
Their  genuine  hues,   the  features   which   tlief 

wore 
In  Nature  ;  there  Opinion  will  be  true, 
And  Action  right.     For  Action  treads  the  path 
In  which  Opinion  says  he  follows  good, 
Or  flies  from  evil ;  and  Opinion  gives 
Report  of  good  or  evil,  as  the  scene 
Was  drawn  by  Fancy,  lovely  or  deform'd  : 
Thus  her  report  can  never  there  be  true, 
AVhere  Fancy  cheats  the  intellectual  eye 
With  glaring  colours  and  distorted  lines. 
Is  there  a  man,  who  at  the  sound  of  Death 
Sees  ghastly  shapes  of  terror  conjured  up. 
And  black  before  him ;  naught  but  death  -bed 

groans 
And  fearful  prayers,  and  plunging  from  the  brink 
Of  light  and  being,  down  the  gloomy  air 
An  unknown  depth  ?     Alas !  in  such  a  mind, 
If  no  bright  forms  of  excellence  attend 
The  image  of  his  country ;  Jior  the  pomp 
Of  sacred  senates,  nor  the  guardian  voice 
Of  Justice  on  her  throne,  nor  aught  that  waket 
The  conscious  bosom  with  a  patriot's  flame; 
Will  not  Opinion  tell  him,  that  to  die. 
Or  stand  the  hazard,  is  a  greater  ill 
Than  to  betray  his  country  ?     And  in  act 


PLEASURES    OF   ItIAGI^  ITICN.  1S3 

Will  he  not  choose  to  be  a  wretch,  i  nd  live  : 
Here  vice  begins  then,     from  the   enchantincr 

cup 
Which  Fancy  holds  to  all,  the  unwary  thirst 
Of  youth  oft  swallows  a  Circa^an  draught, 
That  sheds  a  baleful  tincture  o'er  the  eye 
Of  Reason,  till  no  hnger  he  discerns, 
And  only  guides  to  err.     Then  revel  forth 
A  furious  band  that  spuriis  him  from  the  throne 
And  all  is  uproar.     Thus  Ambition  grasps 
The  empire  of  the  soul :  thus  pale  Revenge 
Unsheaths  her  murderous  dagger  ;  and  the  hands 
Of  Lust  and  Rapine,  Vkdrh  unholy  arts. 
Watch  to  o'erturn  the  barrier  of  the  laws 
That  keeps  them  from  their  prey :  thus  all  the 

plagues 
The  wicked  bear,  or  o'er  the  trembling  scene 
The  tragic  Muse  discloses,  under  shapes 
Of  honour,  safety,  pleasure,  ease,  or  pomp. 
Stole  first  into  the  mind.     Yet  not  by  all 
Those  lying  forms  which  Fancy  in  the  brain 
Engenders,  are  the  kindlmg  passions  driven 
To  guilty  deeds  ;  nor  Reason  bound  in  chains, 
That  Vice  alone  may  lord  it ;  oft  adorn' d 
With  solemn  pageants,  folly  mounts  the  throne, 
And  plays  her  idiot-antics,  Uke  a  queen. 
A  thousand  garbs  she  wears  ;  a  thousand  ways 
She  wheels  her  giddy  empire. — Lo  I  thus  far 
With  bold  adventure,  to  the  Mantuan  lyre 
si  ig  of  Nature's  charms,  and  touch  well-pleased 


184  AILENSiUii  » 

A  Stricter  note  ;  now  haply  must  mj  soa» 

Unbend  her  serious  measure,  and  re\eal 

In  Ughter  strauis,  how  Folly's  awkward  arts 

Excite  impetuous  Laughter's  gay  rebuke  ; 

The  sportive  province  of  the  comic  Muse. 

See !   in  what  crowds  the   uncouth  Ibrms  ad 

vance : 
Each  would  outstrip  the  other,  each  prevent 
Our  careful  seavch,  and  offer  to  your  gaze, 
Unmask' d,  his  motley  features.     Wait  awhile. 
My  curious  friends  !  and  let  us  first  arrange, 
In  proper  order,  your  promiscuous  throng. 

Behold  the  foremost  band ;  of  slender  thought, 
And  easy  faith  ;  whom  flattering  Fancy  soothes 
With  lying  spectres,  in  themselves  to  view 
Illustrious  forms  of  excellence  and  good, 
That  scorn  the  mansion.     Wiih  exuiiing  hearts 
They  spread  their  spurious  ireasurcs  to  the  Sun, 
And  bid  the  world  admire  I  but  cliief"  the  glance 
Of  wishful  Envy  drawG  t.heir  joy-lriv-h;  eyes, 
And  lifis  wiih  self- applause  each  lo.aly  brow. 
In  numbers  boundless  as  the  Moo:ns  of  £j>ring 
Behold  their  olaring  idols,  empty  ^^haies 
By  Fancy  gilded  o'er,  and  then  set  up 
For  adoration.     Some  in  Lear!!ii'.g'.s  g'lrh, 
With  formal  band,  and  saLile-oiricrnre.l  gown. 
And  rags  of  mouldy  volumes.     Some  elate 
With  martial  splendour,  steely  pikes  iindsworda 
Of  costly  frame,  and  gay  Photnician  robes 


rLEASURES    OF   I  MAG  >'ATIOX.  183 

(iiWTOught  -with  flowery  gold,  assume  the  port 

Of  stately  Valour  :  listetiing  by  his  side 

There  stands  a  female  form  ;  to  her,  %vifh  looka 

Of  earnest  import,  pregnant  \\\ih  amizc, 

He  talks  of  deadly  deeds,  of  breaches,  storms, 

And  sulphurous  mines,  and  ambush:    then  aJ 

once 
Breaks  off,  and  smiles  to  see  her  look  so  pale, 
And  asks  some  wondering  question  of  her  fears. 
Others  of  graver  mien;  behold,  adorn 'd 
With  holy  ensigns,  how  sublime  they  move, 
And,  bending  oft  their  sanctimonious  eyes. 
Take  homage  of  the  simple-minded  throng ; 
Ambassadors  of  Heaven  !     Nor  much  unlike 
Is  he  whose  visage,  in  the  lazy  mist 
That  mantles  every  feature,  hides  a  brood 
Of  poUtic  conceits;  of  whispers,  nods. 
And  hints  deep-omen' d  with  unwieldy  schemes, 
And  dark  portents  of  state.     Ten  thousand  more 
Prodigious  habits  and  tumultuous  tongues, 
Pour  dauntless  in,  and  swell  the  boastful  band- 
Then  comes  the  second  order,  all  who  seek 
The  debt  of  praise,  where  watchful  UnbeUef 
Darts  through  the  thin  pretence  her  squiniin^ 

eye 
On  some  retired  appearance,  which  behes 
The  boasted  virtue,  or  annuls  the  applause 
That  Justice  else  weald  pay.     Here  side  by  side 
I  eae  two  leaders  of  :he  solemn  train 


I8b  akenside's 

A-pproaching :  one  a  female  old  i.nd  gr^y, 

With  eyes  domure,  and  wrinkle- iurrow'd  brow. 

Pale  as  the  cheeks  of  Death  ;  yet  still  she  stims 

The  sickening  audience  with  a  nauseous  tale : 

How  many  youths  her  myrtle  chains  have  worn, 

How  many  virgins  at  her  triumphs  pined  ! 

Yet  how  resolved  she  guards  her  cautious  heart; 

Such  is  her  terror  at  the  risks  of  love, 

And  man's  seducing  tongue  !     Ihe  other  seems 

A  bearded  sage,  ungentle  in  his  mien. 

And  sordid  all  his  habit ;  peevish  Want 

Grins  at  his  heels,  while  down  the  gaziiig  throxijr 

He  stalks,  resounding  in  maguilic  praise 

The  vanity  of  riches,  the  contempt 

Of  pomp  and  power.     Be  prudent  in  your  zeal. 

Ye  grave  associates  !  let  the  silent  grace 

Of  her  who  blushes  at  the  lond  regard 

Her  charms  inspire,  more  eloquent  unfold 

The  praise  of  spotless  honour  :  let  the  man 

Whose  eye  regards  not  his  illustrious  pomp 

And  ample  store,  but  as  indulgent  streams 

To  cheer  the  barren  soil  and  spread  the  fruita 

Of  joy,  let  him  by  juster  measures  *ix 

The  price  ol  riches  and  the  end  of  power. 

Another  tribe  succeeds ;  deluded  long 
By  Fancy's  dazzling  optic-s,  these  behold 
The  images  of  some  peculiar  things 
With  brighter  hues  resplendent,  and  Dortray'd 
With  features  nobler  far  than  e'tr  adorn'd 


PLEASURES    OF    IMARINATIO.V.  l^" 

Their  genuine  objects.     Hence  the  fevei  d  heai« 
Pants  with  deUrious  hope  for  tinsel  charms : 
ilence  oft,  obtrusive  on  the  eye  of  Scorn, 
Untimely  Zeal  her  witless  pride  betrays  ! 
A.nd  serious  manhood  from  the  towering  aim 
Of  Wisdom,  stoops  to  emulate  the  boast 
Of  childish  toil.     Behold  yon  mystic  form, 
Bedeck'd  with    feathers,    insects,   weeds,    and 

shells ! 
Not  with  intenser  view  the  Samian  sage 
Bent  his  fix'd  eye  on  Heaven's  inrenser  fires, 
When  first  the  order  of  that  radiant  scene 
Swell'd  his  exulting  thought,  than  this  surveys 
A  muckworm's  entrails  or  a  spider's  fang. 
Next  him  a  youth,  with  flowers  and  rnyrtles 

crown' d. 
Attends  that  virgin  form,  and  blushing  kneels, 
With  fondest  gesture  and  a  suppliant's  tongus, 
To  win  her  coy  regard:  adieu,  for  him, 
The  dull  engagements  of  the  bustling  world ' 
Adieu  the  sick  impertinence  of  praise  ! 
And  hope,  and  action  !  for  with  her  alone, 
By  streams  and  shades,  to  steal  these  sighing 

hours 
is  all  he  asks,  and  all  that  Fate  can  give  ! 
Thee  too,  facetious  Momion,  wandering  here, 
Thee,  dreaded  censor,  oft  have  I  beheld 
Bewilder'd  unawares:  alas!  too  long 
Flush'd  with  thy  comic  triumphs  and  thf*  "poila 
Of  sly  Derision!  till  on  every  side 


i88  akenside's 

Harling  thy  random  bolts,  offended  Tri  th 
Assign' d  »hee  here  thy  station  with  the  slaves 
Of  Folly.     Thy  once  formidable  name 
Shall  grace  her  hmnble  records,  and  be  heard 
In  scoffs  and  mockery,  bandied  from  the  lips 
Of  all  the  vengeful  brotherhood  around, 
So  oft  the  patient  victims  of  thy  scorn. 

But  now,  ye  gay !  to  whom  indulgent  Fate 
Of  all  the  Muse's  empire,  hath  assign'd 
The  fields  of  folly,  hither  each  advance 
Your  sickles  :  here  the  treming  soil  affords 
Its  richest  growth.     A  favouriie  brood  appears 
In  whom  the  demon,  with  a  mother's  joy, 
Views  all  her  charms  reflected,  nil  her  cares 
At  full  repaid.     Ye  most  illustrious  band  ! 
Who,  scorning  Reason's  tame,  pedantic  rules, 
And  Order's  vulgar  bondage,  never  meant 
For  souls  sublime  as  yours,  with  generous  zeal 
Pay  Vice  the  reverence  Virtue  long  usurp'd, 
And  yield  Deformity  the  fond  applause 
Which  Beauty  wont  to  claim  ;  forgive  my  song, 
That  for  the  blushing  diffidence  of  youth. 
It  shuns  the  unequal  province  of  your  praise. 

Thus  far  triumphant  in  the  pleasing  guile 
Of  bland  Imagination,  Folly's  train 
Have  dared  our  search  ;  but  now  a  dastard  kmj 
Advance  reluctant,  and  wdth  faltering  feet 
Shrink  from  the  gazer's  eye  ;  enfeebled  hearta 


PLEASURES   OF   IMAGINATION.  189 

\Vhoin  Fancy  chills  with  visionary  fears, 
Or  bends  to  servile  tameness  with  conceits 
Of  shame,  of  evil,  or  of  base  defect. 
Fantastic  and  delusive.     Here  the  slave 
Who  droops  abash'd  when   sullen  Pomp  sur* 

veys 
Ilia  humbler  habit ;  here  the  trembhng  wretch 
Unnerved  and  struck  with  Terror's  icy  bolts. 
Spent  in  weak  waitings,  drown'd  in  shameful 

tears. 
At  every  dream  of  danger  ;  here  subdued 
By  frontless  Laughter,  and  the  hardy  scorn 
Of  old,  unfeelhig  Vice,  the  abject  soul, 
Who  blushing  half  resigns  the  candid  praise 
Of  Temperance  and  Honour  ;  half  disowns 
A  freeman's  hatred  of  tyrannic  pride  ; 
And  hears  v.Tth  sickly  smiles  the  venal  mouth 
With  foulest  Hcense  mock  the  patriot's  name. 

Last  of  the  motley  bands  on  whom  the  power 
Of  gay  Derision  bends  her  hostile  aim, 
Is  that  where  shameful  ignorance  presides. 
Beneath  her  sordid  banners,  lo  !  they  march, 
Like  blind  and  lame.     Whate'er  their  doubtful 

hand 
Attempt,  Confusion  straight  appears  behind, 
And  troubles  all  the  work.     Through  many  a 

maze, 
Perplex' d  they  struggle,  changing  every  path, 
O'er.urning  every  purpose  ;  then  at  last 


190  akensthe  s 

Sit  down  dismay'd,  and   leave   the   entangled 

scene 
For  Scorn  to  sport  with.  Such  then  is  the  abode 
Of  Folly  in  the  mind ;  and  such  the  shapes 
In  which  she  governs  her  obsequious  train. 

Through  every  scene  of  ridicule  in  things 
To  lead  the  teiiour  of  my  devious  lay ; 
Through  every  swift  occasion,  which  the  hand 
Of  Laughter  points  at,  when  the  mirthful  sting 
Distends  her  sallying  nerves  and  chokes  her 

tongue ; 
What  were  it  but  to  count  each  crys'al  drop 
Which  Morning's  dewy  fingers  on  the  blooms 
Of  May  distil  ?    Suffice  it  to  liave  said, 
Where'er  the  power  of  Ridicule  displays 
Her  quaint -eyed  visage,  some  inco;igruousform, 
Some  stubborn  dissonance    f  thini^s  combined, 
Strikes  on  the  quick  observer  :  v/hether  Pomp, 
Or  Praise,  or  Beauty,  mix  their  partial  cla-m 
Where  sordid  fashions,  where  igno!)le  deeds.', 
Where  foul  deformity  are  wont  to  dwell ; 
Or  whether  these  \vith  violation  loth'd. 
Invade  resplendent  Pomp's  imperious  mien, 
The  charnr.s  of  Beauty,  or  the  boast  of  Praise. 

Ask  we  for  what  fair  end,  the  Almighty  Sire. 
In  mortal  bosoms  wakes  this  gay  contempt, 
These  grateful  stings  of  laughter,  from  disgust 
Educing  pleasure  ?     Wherefore,  but  to  aid 


PLF-ASUIIES    CF   IM.l  OIXATION.  191 

Tlie  tardy  steps  of  Reason,  and  at  once 
By  this  prompt  impulse  urge  us  to  ilepress 
The  giddy  aims  of  Folly  ?  Though  the  light 
Of  Truth,  slow  dawning  on  the  inquiring  m.  iKt; 
At  length  unfolds,  through  many  a  subtle  tie. 
How  these  uncouth  disorders  end  at  last 
In  public  evil;  yet  benignant  Heaven, 
Conscious  how  dun  the  dawn  of  Truth  appears 
To  thousands;  conscious  what  a  scanty  pause 
From  labours  and  from  care,  the  wider  lot 
Of  humble  life  affords  for  studious  thought 
To  scan  the  maze  of  Nature  ;  therefore  stamp'd 
The  glaring  scenes  wiih  characters  of  scorn, 
As  broad,  as  obvious,  to  the  pastjing  clown, 
As  to  the  letter'd  sage's  curious  eye. 

Such  are  the  variou?  aspects  of  the  mind — 
Some    neavenly    germs,    whose    nnclouded 

thoughrs 
Attain  that  secret  bp.-mony  which  blends 
The  ethereal  spirit  T'ith  its  mould  of  clay  ; 
O  !  teach  me  to  re  eal  the  graceful  charm 
That  searchless  N/iture  o'er  the  sense  of  man 
Diffuses,  to  beho'id,  in  lifeless  things, 
The  inexpressive  semblance  of  himself, 
Of  thought  and  passion.    Mark  the  sable  woodi 
That  sliade  sublhne   yon   mountain's   nodding 

brow  ; 
With  what  religious  awe  the  solemn  scene 
Commands  your  steps  1  as  if  the  reverend  forna 


,92  akexsite's 

Of  ^Vrinos  or  of  Numa  shcxild  forsake 

The  Elysian  seats,  and  down  th'^  embowt/mg 

glade 
Move  to  your  pausing  eye  !  Behold  the  expanse 
Of  yon  gay  landscape,  where  the  silver  clouds 
FUt    o'er    the    heavens    before    the    «!prightly 

breeze  : 
Now  their    gray   cincture   skirts   the   ioubtiii' 

Sun; 
Now  streams  of  splendour,  through  their  open- 
ing veil 
Effulgent,  sweep  from  off  the  gilded  lawn 
The  aerial  shadows  ;  on  the  curling  brook, 
And  on  the  shady  margin's  quivering  leaves 
With  quickest  lustre  glancing  ;  while  you  view 
The  prospect,  say,  within  your  cheerful  breast 
Plays  not  the  lively  sense  of  winning  mirth 
With  clouds  and  sunshine  chequer'd,  while  the 

round 
Of  social  converse,  to  the  inspiring  tongue 
Of  some  gay  nymph  amid  her  subject  train. 
Moves  all  obsequious  ?  Whence  is  this  effect. 
This  kindred  power  of  such  discordant  tilings  ? 
Or  flows  their  semblance  from  that  mystic  tone 
To  which   the   new-born    mind's   harmoiiious 

powers 
A-t  first  were  strung  ?     Or  rather  from  the  linkf 
Which  artful  custom  twines  around  her  frame  1 

For  when  "he  diflferent  ima^-e?  of  things, 


PLEASURES    OF   IMA-GmATlOJJr.  193 

By  chance  combined,  have  struck  the  attentive 

<soul 
With  deeper  impulse,  or  connected  long,   • 
Have  drawn  her  frequent  eye  ;  hovve'er  distinci 
The  external  scenes,  yet  oft  the  ideas  gain 
From  that  conjunction  an  eternal  tie, 
And  sympathy  unbroken.     Let  the  mind 
Recall  one  partner  of  the  various  league, 
Immediate,  lo  !  the  firm  confederates  rise, 
And  each  his  former  station  straight  resumes: 
One  movement  governs  the  consenting  throi.g, 
And  all  at  once  with  rosy  pleasure  shine. 
Or  all  are  sadden'd  with  the  glooms  of  care. 
'T was  thus,  if  ancient  Fame  the  truth  unfold. 
Two  faithful  needles,  from  the  informing  touch 
Of  the  same  parent-stone,  together  drew 
fts  mystic  virtue,  and  at  first  conspired 
With  fatal  impulse  quivering  to  the  Pole; 
Then,  though  disjoin' d   by  kingdoms,    though 

the  main 
RoU'd  its  broad  surge  betwixt,   and   different 

stars 
tJeheld  their  wakeful  motions,  yet  preservea 
The  former  friendship,  and  remember'd  still 
The  alliance  of  their  birth :  whate'er  the  fine 
Which  one  possess'd,  nor  pause,  nor  quiet  knew 
The  sure  associate,  ere  with  trembling  speed 
He  found  us  path,  and  fix'd  unerring  there. 
Such  is  the  secret  union,  when  we  fee! 
A  song,  a  flower,  a  name,  at  once  restore 
13 


*94  akenside's 

Those  long  connected  scenes  m  here  firs'  ihey 

moved 
The  attention:    backward   through   her   maay 

walks 
Guiding  the  wanton  Fancy  to  her  scope, 
To  temples,  courts,  or  fields ;  with  all  the  band 
Of  painted  forms,  of  passions  and  designs 
Attendant:  whence,  if  pleasing  in  itself. 
The  prospect  from  taat  sweet  accession  gains 
Redoubled  influence  o'er  the  Ustening  mmd. 

By  these  mysterious  ties  the  busy  power 
Of  Memory  her  ideal  train  preserves 
Entire  ;  or  when  they  would  elude  her  watch, 
Reclaims  their  fleeting  footsteps  from  the  waste 
Of  dark  oblivion  ;  thus  collecting  all 
The  various  forms  of  being,  to  present, 
Before  the  curious  aim  of  mimic  Art, 
Their  largest  choice ;    like   Spring's   unfoldeJ 

blooms 
Exhaling  sweetness,  that  the  skilful  bee 
May  taste  at  will  from  their  selected  spoils 
To  work  her  dulcet  food.    For  not  the  expanse 
Of  Uving  lakes  in  Summer's  noontide  calm, 
Reflects  the   bordering  shade,  and  siui-brigh 

heavens. 
With  fairer  semblance ;  not  the  sculptured  gold 
More  faithful  keeps  the  graver's  lively  trace, 
Than  he,  whose  birth  the  sister  powers  of  Art 
Propitious  view'd,  and  from  his  genial  star 


PLEASUKES    OF   IMAGINATION.  19.\ 

Slied  influencp.  to  the  seeds  of  fancy  kind  , 
Than  his  attemper'd  bosom  must  preserve 
The  seal  of  Nature.     There  alone  unchanged. 
Her  form  remains.     The  balmy  walks  of  May 
There  breathe  perennial  sweets  ;  the  trembling 

chord 
Resounds  for  ever  m  the  abstracted  e.ar, 
Melodious:  and  the  virgin's  radiant  eye, 
Superior  to  disease,  to  grief,  and  time, 
Shines  with  unbating  lustre.     Thus  at  length 
Endow'd  with  all  that  Nature  can  bestow, 
The  child  of  Fancy  oft  in  silence  bends 
O'er  these  mixt  treasures  of  his  pregnant  breast. 
With  conscious  pride.     From  the-m  he  oft  re- 
solves 
To  frame  he  knows  not  what  excelling  things ; 
And  wm  he  knows  not  what  subhme  reward 
Of  praise  and  wonder.     By  degrees,  the  mind 
Feels   her    young  nerves   dilate :    the    plastic 

powers 
Labour  for  action  :  bUnd  emotions  heave 
His  bosom,  and  whh  loveliest  frenzy  caught, 
From  eanl.  to  heaven  he  rolls  his  daring  eye, 
From  heaven   to  earth.     Anon  ten    thousand 

shapes, 
Like  spectres  trooping  to  the  wizard's  call. 
Flit  swift  before   him.     From   the  womb  of 

Earth, 
From  Ocean's  bed,  they  come ;    the   eternal 
Heaveng 


i%  AKENSIDE'S 

Disclose  tlieir  splendours,  and  the  dark  Abyss 
Pours  out  her  births  unknown.    With  fixed  gazf 
He  marks  the  rising  phantoms.    Now  compares 
Their  different  forms ;  now  blei.ds  them,  iww 

divides, 
Enlarges,  and  extenuates  by  turns; 
Opposes,  ranges  in  fantastic  bands, 
And  infinitely  varies.     Hither  now, 
Now  thither  fluctuates  his  inconstant  aim, 
With  endless  choice  perplex'd.     At  length  his 

plan 
Begins  to  open.     Lucid  order  dawns; 
And  as  from  Chaos  old  the  jarring  seeds 
Of  Nature  at  the  voice  divine  repair'd 
Each  to  its  place,  till  rosy  Earth  unveil'd 
Her  fragrant  bosom,  and  the  joyful  Sun 
Sprung  up  the  blue  serene  ;  by  swift  degrees 
Thus  disentangled,  his  entire  design 
Emerges.     Colours  mingle,  features  join  ; 
And  lines  converge :  the  fainter  parts  retire  ; 
The  fairer  eminent  in  hght  advance  ; 
And  every  image  on  its  neighbour  smiles. 
Awhile  he  stands,  and  with  a  father*"  joy 
Contemplates.     Then  with  Prc.uethcan.  art, 
Into  its  proper  vehicle  he  breathes 
The  fair  conception  ;  which,  embodied  thus, 
And  permanent,  becomes  to  eves  or  ears 
An  object  ascertain'd;  while  thus  iaform'd. 
The  various  organs  f  i  his  mimic  skill, 
The  consonance  of  sounds,  the  featured  rock. 


PLEASURES   OF   TM)! 'JINATION.  197 

The  shadowy  picture  and  impassion'd  verse, 

Beyond  their  proper  powers  attract  the  soul 

By  that  expressive  semblance,  while  lu  sight 

Of  Nature's  great  original  we  scan 

The  lively  child  of  Art ;  while  line  by  line, 

And  feature  after  feature,  we  refer 

To  that  sublime  exemplar  whence  it  stole 

Those  animating  charms.     Thus  !)eauty's  palm 

Betwixt  them  wavering  hangs:  applauding  love 

Doubts   wn^ire    to   choose;    and    mortal    man 

aspires 
To  tempt  creative  praise.     As  when  a  cloud 
Of  gHthering  hail,  with  limpid  crusts  of  ice 
Inclosed  and  obvious  to  the  beaming  Sun, 
Collects     his    large    effulgence ;     straight    the 

heavens 
With  equal  flames  present  oi;  either  hand 
The  radiant  visage  :  Persia  stands  at  gaze. 
Appall'd;  and  on  the  brink  of  Ganges  doubts 
The  snowy-vested  seer,  in  Mithka's  name, 
To  which  the  fragrance  of  the  south  shall  burn, 
To  which  his  warbled  orisons  ascend. 

Such  various  bliss  the  well- tuned  heart  enjoys, 
Favour'd  of  Heaven!  while,  plunged  in  sordid 

cares, 
The  unfeeling  vulgar  mocks  the  boon  divine : 
And  harsh  Austerity,  from  whose  rebuke     • 
Young  Love  and  smiling  Wonder  shrink  away 
Abash'd.  aid  chi.i  of  heart,  with  sager  frowra 


198  AKENSIIIE'S 

Condemns  the  fair  enchantment.    On  my  strain 
Perhaps  even  now,  some  cold  Ibstidions  judge 
Casts  a  disdainful  eye  ;  and  calls  my  loil, 
And  calls  the  love  and  l-eauiy  which  I  sirg. 
The  dream  of  folly.     Thou,  grave  censor  !  say 
Is  Beauty  then  a  dream,  because  the  glooms 
Of  dullness  hang  too  heavy  on  thy  sense, 
To  let  her  shine  upon  thee  ?     So  the  man 
Whose  eye  ne'er  open'd  on  the  light  of  Heaven, 
Might  smile  witli   scorn  \'-hile   raptured  vision 

tells 
Of  the  gay-colour'd  radiance  flushing  briglit 
O'er  all  creation.     From  the  wise  be  far 
Such  gross  unhallow'd  pride;    nor   needs  ray 

song 
Descend  so  lov^' ;  but  rather  now  unfold, 
If  human  thought  could  reat^h.  or  words  unfold, 
By  what  mysterious  fabric  of  the  mind. 
The  deep-felt  joys  and  harmony  of  sound 
Result  from  airy  motion;  and  Irom  shape 
The  lovely  phantoms  of  sublin;e  and  fair. 
By  what  fine  ties  hath  God  connected  things 
When   present  in   the  mind,    wnich  in   them 

selves 
Have  no  connexion  ?     Sure  the  rising  Sun 
O'er  the  cerulean  convex  of  the  sea, 
Whh  equal  brightness  and  with  equal  warmth 
Might  roll  his  fiery  orb  ;  nor  yet  the  soul 
Thus  feel  her  frame  expanded,  and  her  powers 
Exulting  in  the  splendour  she  beholds  ; 


?iiEASljilES   OF   IMA&INATION  199 

Like  a  young  conqueror  moving  through  the 

pomp 
Of  some  triumphal  day.     When  join'J  at  eve, 
Soft  murmuring  streams  and  gales  of  gentlest 

hreath 
Melodious  Philomela's  wakeful  strain 
Attemper,  could  not  man's  discerning  ear 
Through  all  its  tones  the  sympathy  pursue ; 
Nor  yet  this  breath  divine  of  nameless  joy 
Steal  through  his  vains,  and  fan  the  awaken'd 

heart, 
Mila  as  the  breeze,  yet  rapturous  as  the  song  f 

But  were  not  Nature  still  endow'd  at  large 
With  all  which  life  requires,  though  unadorn'd 
With  such  enchantment :    wherefore  then  her 

form 
So  exquisitely  fair  ?  her  breath  perfumed 
With  such  ethereal  sweetness?  whence  her  voice 
Inform' d  at  wdll  to  raise  or  to  repress 
The  impassion'd  soul?   and  whence  the  robes 

of  light 
Which  thu8  invest  her  with  more  lovely  pomp 
Than  fancy  can  describe?     Whence  but  from 

thee, 
O  source  divine  of  ever-flowing  love. 
And  thy  unmeasured  goodness  ?     Not  couteiil 
With  every  food  of  life  to  nourish  man. 
By  kind  illusions  of  the  wondering  sense 
Thou  mak  lai  all  nature  beauty  to  his  eve. 


200  akenside'<; 

Or  music  to  his  ear:  well-pleased  he  scans 
The  goodly  prospect ;  and  with  inward  smiles 
Treads  the  gay  verdure  of  thp  painted  plain; 
Beholds  the  azure  canopy  of  Fleaven, 
And  living  lamps  that  over-arch  his  head 
With  more  than  regal  splendour  ;  bends  his  eare 
To  the  full  choir  of  water,  air.  and  earth  ; 
Nor  heeds  the  pleasing  error  of  his  thought, 
Nor  doubts  the  painted  green  or  azure  arch, 
Nor  questions  more  the  music's  mingling  sounds 
Than  space,  or  motion,  or  eternal  rime  ; 
So  sweet  he  feels  their  infiuence  to  attract 
The  fixed  soul;  to  brighten  the  dull  glooms 
Of  care,  and  make  the  destined  road  of  life 
Delightful  to  his  feet.     So  faldes  tell. 
The  adventurous  hero,  bound  on  hard  exploits, 
Beholds  with  glad  surprise,  by  secret  spells 
Of  some  kind  sage,  the  patron  of  his  toils, 
A  visionary  paradise  disclosed 
Amid    the    dubious  v.-ild :    with    streams,    and 

shades, 
And  airy  songs,  the  enchanted  landscape  smiles, 
Cheers  his  long  labours,  and  renews  his  frame. 

What  then  is  taste,  but  these  internal  powers 
Active,  and  strong,  and  feelingly  alive 
To  ea^h  fine  impulse?  a  discerning  sense 
Of  decent  and  sublime,  with  quick  disgust 
From  thing?  deform'd.  or  disarranged,  or  gross 
[n  species  ?     This,  nor  gems,  nor  storo'a  of  gold. 


PLEA-oCTRES   OF   TMA  ^INATIOJT.  201 

Nor  pui-ple  state,  nor  culture  can  bestow, 

But  God  alone  when  first  his  active  hand 

Imprints  the  secret  bias  of  the  soul. 

He,  mighty  Parent !  wise  and  just  in  all, 

Free  as  the  vital  breeze  or  light  of  heaven, 

Reveals  the  charms  of  Nature.     Ask  the  swain 

VVho  journeys  homeward  from  a  summer  day's 

Long  labour,  why,  forgetful  of  hia  toils 

And  due  repose,  he  loiters  to  behold 

The  sunshine  gleaming  as  through  amber  cloudu, 

O'er  all  the  western  sky ;  full  soon,  I  ween, 

His  rude  expression  and  untutor'd  airs. 

Beyond  the  power  of  language,  will  unfold 

The  form  of  beauty  smiling  at  his  heart, 

How  lovely  !    how  commanding  !     But  though 

Heaven 
In  every  breast  hath  sown  these  early  seeds 
Of  love  and  admiration,  yet  in  vain, 
Without  fair  Culture's  kind  parental  aid. 
Without  enlivening  suns,  and  genial  showers, 
And  shelter  from  the  blast,  in  vain  we  hope 
The  tender  plant  should  rear  its  blooming  hevuAt 
Or  yield  the  harvest  promised  in  its  spring. 
Nor  yet  will  every  soil  with  equal  stores 
Repay  the  tiller's  labour;  or  attend 
His  \\i\\,  obsequious,  whether  to  produce 
The  olive  or  the  laurel.     Diflerent  minda 
Incline  to  different  objects  :  one  pursues 
The  vast  alone,  the  wonderful,  the  wild 
Another  sighs  for  harmony  and  gra  :e, 


302  lkkssidl's 

And  gentlest  heauiy.  Hence  when  ligluninif  nrea 
The  arch  of  Heaven,  and    thtuiders   rock   the 

ground, 
When  furious  whirlwinds  rend  the  howhng  air 
And  Ocean,  groaniiig  from  his  bwest  bed, 
Heaves  his  tempestuous  billows  to  the  sky  , 
Amid  the  mighty  uproar,  while  below 
The  nations  tremble,  Siiakspeare  looks  abroad 
From  some  high  cliff,  superior,  and  enjoys 
The  elemental  war.     But  Waller  longs, 
All  on  the  margin  of  some  flowery  stream. 
To  spread  his  careless  Unibs  amid  the  coo! 
Of  plantain  shades,  and  to  the  listening  deer 
The  tale  of  slighted  vows  and  love's  disdain 
Resound  soft- warbling  all  the  livelong  day: 
Consenting  Zephyr  sighs  ;  the  weeping  rill 
Joins  in  his  plaint,  melodious  ;  mute  the  groves , 
And  hill  and  dale  with  all  their  echoes  mourn. 
Such  and  so  various  are  the  tastes  of  men. 

Oh  !  blest  of  Heaven,  whom  not  the  languid 

songs 
Of  Luxury,  the  syren!  not  the  bribes 
Of  sordid  Wealth,  nor  aU  the  gaudy  spoils 
Of  pageant  Homer,  can  «educe  to  leave 
Those  ever-blooming  sweets,  wnich  from  the 

store 
Of  Nature  fair  Imagination  oil  Is 
To  charm  the  eiUiven'd  soul !      What  though 

no:  all 


PLEASURES    OF    IMARIN  A.TIOIT.  ?03 

Of  mortal  ofi'spring  can  attain  the  heigh  3 

Of  envied  lilc  ;  though  only  tew  possess 

Patncian  treasures  or  imperial  slate ; 

Yet  Nature's  care,  to  all  her  children  just, 

With  richer  treasures  and  an  ampler  state, 

Endows  at  large  whatever  hiippy  man 

Will  deign  to  use  them.     His  the  city's  pomp, 

The  rural  honours  his.   .  Whate'er  adorns 

The  princely  dome,  the  column  and  the  arch, 

The    breathing    marbles    and    the    sculptured 

gold, 
Beyond  the  proud  possessor's  narrow  claim, 
His  tuneful  breast  enjoys.     For  him,  the  spring 
Distils  her  dews,  and  from  the  silken  gem 
[ts  lucid  leaves  unfolds :  for  him,  the  hand 
Of  Autumn  tinges  every  fertile  branch 
With    blooming    gold,    and    blushes    like    the 

morn. 
Each  passing  hour  sheds  tribute  from  her  wing^. 
And  still  new  beauties  meet  his  lonely  walk, 
And  loves  unfelt  attract  him.     Not  a  breeze 
Flies  o'er  the  meadow,  not  a  cloud  imbibes 
The  setting  Sun's  eflulgence,  not  a  strain 
From  all  the  tenants  of  the  warbling  shade 
Ascends,  but  whence  his  bosom  can  partake 
Fresh  pleasure,  unrepro?ed.     Nor  then'^e  par 

takes 
Fresh  pleasure  only  :  for  the  attentive  mmd, 
By  ttiis  harmonious  action  on  her  powers, 
Becomes  herself  harmonious  :  wont  so  oft 


504  aketside's 

In  outward  things  to  meditate  the  charm 

Of  sacred  order,  soon  she  seeks  at  home 

To  find  a  kindred  order,  to  exen 

Within  herself  this  elegance  of  love, 

This  fair  inspired  dehght :  her  tem.pcr'd  powers 

Refine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 

A  chaster,  milder,  more  attractive  mien. 

But  if  to  ampler  prospects,  if  to  gaze 

On  Nature's  form,  where,  negligent  of  all 

These  lesser  graces,  she  assumes  the  port 

Of  that  eternal  majesty  that  weigh'd 

The  world's  foundations,  if  to  these  the  mind 

Exalts  her  daring  eye  ;  then  mightier  far 

Will  be  the  change,  and  nobler       Would  the 

tormb 
Of  servile  custom  cramp  Tier  generous  powers ! 
Would  sordid  poUcies,  the  barbarous  growth 
Of  ignorance  and  rapine,  bow  her  down 
To  tame  pursui'^s,  U  indolence  and  fear? 
Lo !  she  appeals  to  Nature,  to  the  winds 
And  rolUng  waves,  the  Sun's  unwearied  course 
The  elements  and  seasons  :  all  declare 
For  what  the  eternal  Maker  has  ordain'd 
The  powers  of  man :  we  feel  within  ourselves 
His  energy  divine  :  he  tells  the  heart, 
He  meant,  he  made  us  ^o  behold  and  love 
What  he  beholds  and  loves,  the  general  orb 
Of  hfe  and  being;  to  be  great  Uke  him, 
Beneficent  and  active.     Thus  the  men 


PLEASURES    OF   IMAai-wATlON-  20f. 

iVhom  Nature's  works  can  charm,  wifi  Grd 

himself 
Hold  converse  ;  grow  familiar,  day  by  day 
With  his  concenfions.  act  upon  his  plan  . 
itnd  form  to  b  -,    .«t;    ^  ..sS  )*   i^  -  soula. 


POEMS 

OK 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY.  L.  L.  D 


POEMS 


ROBERT    SOUTHEY,  L.L.3r, 

POET   LAURKATK,  &,C. 

VViXU     A    iNhVV 

MEMOIK  OF  HIS  LUT,. 


WORLD  Publishing  house, 

139    EIGHTH    STREET, 

NEW   YORK. 
1875. 


MEMOIR 


OF 


ROBERT    SOUTHEY 


Robert  Southey  was  born  in  Bristol,  on  the 
12th  of  August,  1774.  His  father  was  a  whole- 
Bale  linen  draper  in  that  city,  and  the  property 
which  he  acquired  in  his  business  was  such  as  to 
enable  him  to  give  his  son,  whose  remarkable 
powers  of  mind  began  to  be  developed  at  a  very 
early  age,  an  excellent  education.  The  little  that 
is  known  to  the  public  of  his  early  hfe  and  stu- 
dios, is  to  be  found  in  the  prefaces  of  his  various 
works,  and  in  occasional  fragments  of  his  letters 
which  have  been  pubhshed.  In  a  letter  written 
some  years  since  to  Dr.  Adam  Clark,  he  thus 
speaks  of  the  abode  of  his  childhood.  "  Twelve 
montiis  ago,  I  passed  three  days  at  Bristol,  where 
I  had  not  been  for  twenty  years  before.  I  went 
into  my  father's  shop,  and  requested  leave  to  ge 
into  his  house  anc"  into  the  room  where  my  cradle 
had  been  rockea.     \  went  also  to  Bedminster 

V 


ei  MEMCIR    OF 

wbere  my  mother  was  born,  and  whtre,  in  hei 
mother's  house,  the  happiest  days  of  rc.y  child- 
hood  had  been  peissed,  and  requested  leave  to  go 
in.  The  house  had  been  re-modelled,  and  the 
gardens  laid  out  in  the  manner  of  these  times. 
I  recognised  nothing  as  it  had  been  except  a  few 
trees  which  my  uncle  aad  my  grandmother  had 
planted." 

"  A  great  part  of  Southey's  childhood,"  says 
Chorley,  in  his  Authors  of  England,  "  was  pass- 
ed  at  Bath,  under  the  care  of  his  mother's  half- 
sister.  When  about  six  years  of  age,  he  weis  sent 
to  school,  being  in  the  first  instance  placed  with 
Mr.  Foote,  a  Baptist  minister  ;  subsequently,  at 
a  boarding-school,  at  Corston,  near  Newton,  St. 
Loo,  kept  uy  Mr.  Flower,"  and,  finally,  after 
being  some  time  under  a  private  tutor,  he  was 
sent  to  Westminster,  in  the  spring  of  1788. 
But  It  is  far  more  pleasant  to  discover  what  were 
the  early  natural  tastes  and  affinities  of  a  mind 
like  Southey's,  than  to  trace  the  routine  of  its 
studies  at  school;  and  on  this  subject,  Chorley 
gives  the  following  extract  of  a  letter  from 
Southey,  published  in  the  Auto-biography  of  3ir 
Egerton  Brydges.  "  From  very  early  boyhood, 
when  I  first  read  the  '  Arcadia'  in  Mrs.  Stan- 
ley's modernisation  of  it,  Sydney  took  posses- 
sion of  my  imagination.  Not  that  I  Hked  the 
book  the  better,  just  in  proportion  as  she  had 
worsened  it,  for  his  own  language  would  have 
presented  nothing  strange  or  difficult  to  me,  who 
had  read  Sbakspeare,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  aa 


ROBBR1    SOUTUEI.  fU 

soon  as  I  coild  understand  enough  of  them  to 
follow  the  story  of  their  plays."  And  to  thia 
notice  of  the  voluntary  studies  of  his  youth,  may 
be  added  the  following,  from  Southey's  preface 
to  his  collected  Poems,  pubhshed  subsequently 
to  ChorJey's  work  above  quoted. 

'•  My  first  attempts  at  verse  were  much  too 
early  to  be  imitative  ;  but  I  was  fortunate  enough 
to  find  my  way,  when  very  young  into  the  right 
path.  I  read  the  *  Jerusalem  DeUvered'  and  the 
'  Orlando  Furioso,'  again  and  again,  in  Hoole's 
tranilaiion ;  ii  was  ior  tlie  onke  of  their  stories 
that  I  perused  and  re-perused  these  poems  with 
ever  new  delight ;  and  by  bringing  them  thus 
within  my  reacii  in  boyhood,  the  translator  render* 
ed  me  a  service  which,  when  I  look  back  on  m) 
intellectual  hfe,  I  canuDi  estimate  too  highly,  i 
owe  him  much  also  for  his  notes,  not  only  for 
the  informuiion  concoiuing  other  Laiian  roman 
ces  which  they  imparted,  but  also  for  introducing 
me  to  Spenser; — how  early,  an  incident  which  I 
well  remember,  may  show.  Going  with  a  rela- 
tion into  Bull's  circulating  library  at  Bath,  (an 
excellent  one  for  those  days,)  and  asking  wheth- 
er they  had  the  '  Fairy  Queen.'  the  person  who 
managed  the  shop  said,  '  yes,  they  had  it,  but  it 
was  in  obsolete  language,  and  the  young  gentle- 
man would  not  understand  it  But  I,  who  had 
learned  all  I  then  knew  of  the  History  of  Eng- 
land from  Sliakspeare,  and  who  had  moreov€?r 
read  Beaumoit  and  Fletcher,  found  no  difficulty 
in  Spenser's  English    and  felt  in  the  beauty  of 


__.Jj 


V\n  MEMOIR    OF 

nis  versification  a  charm  in  poetry  of  which  I  had 
never  been  fully  sensible  before.  Fron^i  that 
time  I  took  Spenser  for  my  master.  T  drank 
also  betimes  of  Chaucer's  well.  The  taste  which 
had  been  acquired  in  that  school  was  confirmed 
by  Percy's  '  Reliques,'  and  Warton's  '  History 
of  English  Poetry;'  and  a  little  later  by  Homer 
and  the  Bible.  It  was  not  likely  to  be  corrupt- 
ed afterwards."  To  one  of  Cowper's  letters, 
in  which  he  speaks  of  his  having  received  a 
"  silver  groat"  for  each  of  his  good  exercises  at 
Westminster.  Southey,  in  his  Life  of  that  poet, 
appends  the  foUowino  note. 

"  My  first  literary  profits  were  thus  obtained, 
and,  like  Cowper,  I  remember  the  pleasure  with 
which  I  received  them.  But  there  was  this  dif- 
ference, that  his  rewards  were  probably  for  La 
tin  verse,  in  which  he  excelled,  and  mine  were 
alsvays  for  Knglish  composition." 

At  Westminster,  Southey,  it  is  said,  was  not 
only  reinarka  ly  quick  in  his  lessons,  but  like 
nearly  all  youthful  geniuses,  whose  precocity 
of  intellect  is  not  the  result  of  diseased  organi- 
zation, he  was  uncommonly  spirited  and  active 
.n  pi  ivs  ;  and  one  account  represents  him  as  hav- 
ing taken  part  in  a  rebellion  against  the  master. 

"  La'e  in  the  year  1792."  to  follow  Chorley'a 
narrative,  "  he  entered  Baliol  College,  Oxford, 
wher.'  he  remained  during  the  following  twelve- 
month, and  pnn  of  the  vear  1794:  but  his  pe- 
culiar opinions,  which  it  that  time  in  politics 
were  fiercely  Jacobinica  ,  and  in  religion  more 


ROBERT  SODTUBT.  12 

than  tei.ded  towards  Socinianism,  made  his  en- 
trance of  the  Church  of  England  as  a  minister 
impossible ;  and  for  this  he  had  been  designed.** 
He  accordingly  left  the  University,  and  in  the 
winter  of  1794,  published  his  first  poems,  in  a 
small  volume,  the  joint  production  of  his  friend 
Robert  Lovell  and  himself,  under  the  names  of 
Moschus  and  Bion. 

About  this  time,  Southey,  Coleridge  and  Lo- 
vell, burning  with  the  enthusiastic  liberalism, 
which,  in  common  'vith  many  young  and  ardent 
minds,  they  had  caught  from  Republican  France, 
formed  the  far-famed  scheme  of  Pantisocracy. 
Of  this  scheme,  Southey  gives  the  following  ac- 
count. 

"  In  my  youth,  when  my  stock  of  knowledge 
consisted  of  such  an  acquaintance  with  Greek 
and  Roman  history,  as  is  acquired  in  the  course 
of  a  scholastic  education,  when  my  heart  was  full 
of  poetry  and  romance,  and  Lucan  and  Akenside 
were  at  my  tongue's  end,  I  fell  into  the  political 
opinions  which  the  French  Revolution  was  then 
scat  tering  throughout  Europe ;  and  following 
those  opinions  with  ardour  wherever  they  led,  I 
soon  perceived  that  inequalities  of  rank  were  a 
light  evil  compared  to  the  inequalities  of  proper- 
ty, and  those  more  fearful  distinctions  which  the 
jvant  of  moral  and  intellectual  culture  occasions 
between  man  and  man.  At  that  time,  and  with 
those  opinions  or  rather  feelings  (for  their  root 
was  in  the  heart  and  not  in  the  understanding,)  I 
Wrote   '  Wat  Tyler,'   ts  one  who  was  impanent 


X  HEMOTR    OF 

of  all  the  oppressions  that  are  doue  under  the  sun, 
From  building  castles  in  the  air,  to  frannng  com 
monwealths,  was  an  easy  transition  ;  and  in  the 
hope  of  accomplishing  this,  I  forsook  the  course 
of  life  for  which  I  had  been  designed,  and  tho 
prospects  of  advancement  which,  I  might  say, 
without  presumption,  were  within  my  reach. 
My  purpose  was  to  retire  with  a  few  friends  into 
the  wilds  of  America,  and  there  lay  the  founda- 
tions of  a  community  upon  what  we  believed  to 
be  the  political  system  of  Christianity.  It  matters 
not  in  what  manner  this  vision  was  dissolved." 

The  Pantisocracy  scheme,  which  was  long  the 
subject  of  unmerciful  ridicule,  failed  for  want  of 
funds;  and  with  it  failed  the  ardor  of  Southey'g 
liberal  aspirations.  Aside  from  want  of  means, 
difficulties  of  a  practical  nature  would,  no  doubt 
eventually  have  proved  fatal  to  his  plan.  Like 
many  older  and  less  disinterested  schemers, 
Southey  and  his  friends,  in  calculating  the  power 
and  results  of  their  moral  and  poliical  machinery, 
neglected  to  make  due  allowance  for  fHction. 
But  he  was  then  sincere,  earnest  and  self-sacri* 
ficing  in  the  pur.suit  of  his  objects,  a?  far  as  he 
went  ;  the  social  and  political  evil?  which  he 
hi.pcd  to  escape  were  not  chimerical,  and  the 
theory  which  he  wished  to  substantiri;e  was  far 
less  ridiculous  than  hispo.itical  course  since,  has 
been  reprehensible.  From  that  time  fov'h,  South- 
ey has  been  the  bitter  opponent  of  all  change  in 
ihe  estabhshed  order  of  th'ngs,  both  in  Church 
»nd  S  ate.     Not  content  ^^  th  turning  back  pre- 


1^=--^^^---^ 


ROBERT   80UTHET  S 

cipitately,  like  Timorous,  at  the  sight  of  the  first 
Uons  which  he  met  in  the  way  of  letbrm,  he  has 
endeavoured,  with  the  malignity,  if  not  with 
the  power  of  an  Apollyon,  to  oppose  all  who 
woald  make  any  progress,  however  sober  and 
cautious,  in  the  advancement  of  popular  rights. 
These  objectionable  characteristics,  however, 
as  will  hereafter  be  shown,  are  only  to  be  found 
in  his  poUtical  and  polemical  writings.  A  genial 
and  Catholic  spirit  of  philanthrophy  pervades 
his  poems,  and  m  the  relations  of  private  life  he 
IS  blameless.  In  1795,  Southey  married  Miss 
Fricker,  one  of  Whose  sisters  was  the  wife  of 
Coleridge,  and  another,  that  of  their  common 
friend  Lovell.  Shortly  after  his  marriage  he  ac- 
companied to  Portugal,  his  uncle,  who  was  chap- 
lain to  the  English  factory  at  Lisbon.  While  on 
his  way  thither,  his  first  epic  poem,  Joan  of  Arc, 
was  published,  which  had  been  written  in  the 
short  space  of  six  weeks.  It  was  however  almost 
entirely  re-written  afterwards.  In  the  following 
summer  he  returned  to  Bristol,  and  subsequent- 
ly removing  to  London,  entered  Gray's  Inn  and 
devoted  hmiself  to  literature.  In  1797,  he  col- 
lected and  put  forth  his  minor  poems,  and  some 
months  afterwards,  published  his  Letters  from 
Spain  and  Portugal.  His  next  work  was  the  An- 
nual Anthology,  consisting  of  original  poems  by 
various  authors,  a  volume  of  which  was  designed 
to  aftpear  annually,  but  this  work  stopped  at  the 
end  of  the  second  year.  In  1800,  having  again 
visited  Portugal  for  the  recovery  of  his  health, 


ZU  MEHOIR    OP 

he  returned  to  England  in  the  oUowing  year 
and  was  appointed  Secretary  to  the  Chancellof 
of  the  Exchequer  of  Ireland.  He  held  this  ap- 
pointment only  a  short  time,  when  he  retired 
from  oiiice  on  a  pension  of  two  hundred  pounds 
a  year.  On  the  death  of  his  first  child  in  1802, 
he  went  with  his  wife  and  her  sister,  the  widow 
of  his  Iriend  Love  I,  to  visit  Coleridge,  who  was 
then  residing  in  the  Lake  country,  and  fin-^ily, 
says   Chorley,    "Set  up    his   rest  at   Keswick,  j 

where  he  has  since  continued  to  reside,  produc- 
ing V,  ith  Utile  intermission  his, varied  and  exten-  j 
sive  series  of  works,  year  by  year  adding  to  his 
friendships  among  the  worthy,  and  the  gifted, 
and  collecting  a  Ubrary,  "  moit;  ample  perhaps" 
to  quote  his  own  words,  "  thaw  was  ever  before 
possessed  by  one  whose  sole  estate  was  his  ink- 
stand." To  the  above  notices,  it  may  be  added 
that  upon  the  death  of  Pye,  in  the  year  1813, 
•Southey  was  promoted  to  the  vacant  Laureate- 
ship,  whicii  had  been  so  honorably  declined  by 
Scott,  and  that  in  the  year  1821  he  received  hia 
Doctor's  degree.  We  happen  to  know,  too, 
that  a  seat  in  Parliament,  and  a  Baronetcy  have 
been  both,  a*  different  times,  offered  to  his  accep- 
tance, and  both  of  them  declined." 

With  the  exception  of  Scott,  Southey  is  said  to 
be  the  most  prolific  author  of  modern  times. 
Since  his  settlement  at  Keswick  he  has  publish- 
ed Arnadis  de  Gaul  from  the  Spanish  ;  the  works 
oi  Chutterton  ;  Thalaba,  the  destroyer,  a  poem; 
Metrical  Tales  and  other  poems;  Madoc,  a  he'-oio 


ROBERT    SOUTHiY.  XII 

Poem,  founded  on  the  supposed  discovery  ol 
America,  by  a  Welsh  Prin€e,  in  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury ;  Specimens  of  later  English  Poets,  with 
notes;  Palnierin  of  England,  from  the  Portuguese; 
Letters  from  England,  written  under  the  tictitioaa 
name  of  Espriella  ;  the  Remains  of  Henry  Kirke 
White,  with  his  hfe  ;  the  Chronicles  of  the  Cid, 
from  the  Spanish  ;  the  History  of  Brazil,  ni  three 
volumes ;  Ommiana,  a  collection  of  scattered 
thoughts  and  subjects  of  thought,  in  which  he 
was  assisted  by  Coleridge  ;  the  Curse  of  Keha- 
ma,  a  Poem  based  on  the  Hindoo  mythology ; 
the  Liiie  of  Lord  Nelson  ;  Carmen  Triumphale, 
and  other  Laureate  Odes  ;  Roderic,  the  Last  of 
the  Goths,  a  heroic  poem  ;  a  Poet's  Pilgrimage 
to  Waterloo;  a  Reprint  of  the  Byrth,  Lyf  and 
Actes  of  King  Arthur,  with  an  Introduction  and 
notes ;  the  Life  of  John  Wesley  ;  the  Vision  of 
Judgment,  a  Poem  on  the  death  of  George  III, 
and  the  reception  of  his  soul  in  heaven,  the  sub- 
ject of  which,  as  well  as  the  verse  (  an  imitation 
of  the  classic  hexameter)  has  been  much  ridicul- 
ed :  the  Book  of  the  Church;  History  of  the 
War  in  Spain  and  Portugal,  in  six  volumes  ;  Se- 
lect Works  of  the  British  Poets,  from  Chaucer 
to  Johnson ;  Colloquies  on  the  Progress  and 
Prospers  of  society  ;  All  for  love,  and  the  Pil- 
grim 01  Composiella,  Poems  ;  Life  of  Cowper, 
and  a  large  number  of  minor  poems  and  essays, 
of  which  i   would  be  useless  to  attempt  a  list. 

Southey  has  now  ceased  to  write  ;  but  in  ad- 
dition to  the  literary  labors  mentioned  above,  h« 


XIV  MEMOIR    OF 

was  for  many  years  and  until  a  late  penod,  • 
frequent  contributor  to  the  Qr.irterly  Review, 
in  which  he  attacked  the  reformers  with  all  tho 
bitter  hatred  of  an  apostate.  It  is  said  that  foi 
his  later  articles  in  that  journal,  he  received  a 
hundred  guineas  each.  He  has  himself  been  the 
subject  of  much  severe  criticism,  and  the  stric- 
tures of  rival  political  writers  and  critics,  were 
the  occasion  of  much  annoyance  to  him  in  the 
earlier  part  of  his  career  ;  but  since  his  reputa- 
tion has  been  established,  he  has  borne  these  at 
tacks  with  becoming  equanimity.  "  An  author," 
he  said — more  than  thirty  years  ago. — "  is  proof 
against  reviewing  when,  like  myself,  he  has  been 
reviewed  some  seventy  times." 

His  epic  and  other  long  poems,  as  well  as  his 
heavier  polemical  and  historical  works,  are  not 
now  generally  admired,  or  even  read  But  as  a 
biographer,  and  a  writer  of  essays,  he  has  sel- 
dom been  surpassed  in  simplicity,  clearness  of 
narrative,  and  unaffected  earnestness  of  style. 
His  life  of  Nelson  is  still  regarded  as  one  of  the 
best  written  biographies  of  this  or  any  former 
age.  In  some  of  his  smaller  poems,  and  "  es- 
pecially," says  one,  "in  his  EngHsh  Eclogues 
and  other  domestic  pieces,  there  is  a  plain  search- 
ing, but  not  vulgar  truth,  which  places  them  by 
the  side  of  Crahb:''s  most  forcible  and  finished 
cabinet  pictures;  and  a  quaintness,  a  humour 
and  a  credulity  in  his  ballads,  particularly  in 
those  of  witchcraft  and  monkery,  which  belongs 
to  one  St  ^eped  in  the  spirit  of  ancient  tradition." 


ROBERT    SOUTHS 7.  XV 

These  minor  poems  now  chiefly  sustain  South 
ey's  popularity  as  a  poet. 

"  It  scorns  to  us,"  says  an  able  writer,  "  thai 
every  thing  was  correct  in  Southey's  mind,  al 
the  beginning  of  his  career,  except  an  exces- 
sive vanity,  and  a  want  of  courage  to  stand  be- 
fore  the  world  but  as  a  member  of  a  party.  But 
he  began  to  think  that  political  perfection  was 
confined  to  our  own  constitution,  and  that  Chris- 
tianity was  identical  with  the  English  Church 
Establishment.  From  that  he  has  daily  become 
more  and  more  of  a  partisan, — daily  more  and 

more  of  a  sectarian The  tendency  to 

his  former  unsectarian  Catholicism  of  religion 
still  continued,  in  some  degree  to  animate  his 
mind,  after  the  ardor  of  his  early  aspirations  de- 
clined, and  has  given  all  that  they  have  of  mo- 
ral value  to  his  poetical  writings.  But  for  a  feel- 
ing of  brotherhood  with  all  mankind,  which  teach- 
es hiiTi  to  see  in  God  an  essential  love,  his  poems 
would  be  little  more  than  heaps  of  passages  from 
old  books  of  travels  diluted  into  loose  and  ec* 
centric  metrr-.  But  his  natural  piety  has  taught 
him  to  see  in  the  external  world  much  of  what 
it  really  emoodies  of  lovely  and  delightful,  and 
in  the  heart  of  tnan  an  inexhaustible  fountain  of 
magnificent  hopes  and  gentle  impulses  ;  and  from 
these  he  has  extracted  the  sweet  substance  of 
some  of  the  most  graceful  and  gorgeous  narra- 
tives that  the  present  goneraiion  of  poets  have 
produced.  .  .  .  Though  we  think  his  poetry  in- 
ferior to  that  of  many  othei    English  authors. 


XVI  MF.MOXK    or 

it  seems  to  us  to  display  his  mind  in  a  more  near 
ly  perfect  state  than  we  find  it  in  any  of  his  other 
kinds  of  writing.  There  is  in  his  poetry  none  oi 
the  bitterness  of  the  daily  bread  earned  for  them- 
selves by  the  followers  of  a  faction.  In  it  he  does 
not  write  with  the  perpetual  consciousness  that 
he  is  the  gladiator  of  a  sect  or  a  party  ;  we  do  not 
see  him  constantly  spitting  gall  and  venom  at 
every  one  who  differs  from  himself  in  religion 
or  politics  ;  he  feels  no  yoke  but  the  easy  one 
of  our  common  humanity  ;  is  moved  by  no  pas- 
sion but  the  love  of  goodness  and  gentleness, 
and  truth  ;  and  looks  at  mankind  not  as  follow- 
ers or  enemies  of  a  particular  ecclesiastical  es- 
tablishment ;  not  as  republicans,  or  royalists,  or 
aristocrats,  but  ais  heirs  of  one  nature,  brethren 
of  one  house,  and  partakers  of  one  blessed 
home." 

Of  Southey's  personal  habits  and  appearance, 
and  his  \vay  of  life  at  Keswick,  while  in  the 
midst  of  his  career  of  authorship,  Hogg,  in  hia 
"  Reminiscences'.'  furnishes  us  with  the  follow- 
ing delightful  picture,  strongly  characteristic, 
both  of  the  writer  and  the  su-bject.  "  My  first 
interview  with  Mr.  Southey  was  at  the  Queen's 
Head-inn,  in  Keswick,  where  I  had  arrived, 
wearied,  one  evening,  on  my  way  to  Westmore^ 
land  ;  and  not  liking  to  intrude  on  his  family  cir- 
cle that  evening,  I  sent  a  note  up  to  Greta  Hall, 
requesting  him  to  come  down  and  see  me,  and 
drink  one  half  mutchkin  along  with  me.  He 
came    on    the    instant,    and    stayed    with  me 


ROBERT   SOUTKEy.  XV7i 

about  an  hour  and  a  half.  But  I  was  a  giieved 
as  well  as  an  Jistonished  man,  when  I  found  that 
he  refused  all  participation  in  my  beverage  ol 
rum  punch.  For  a  poet  to  refuse  his  glass  was 
to  me  a  phenomenon  ;  and  I  confess  I  doubted, 
in  my  own  mind  and  doubt  to  this  day,  if  perfect 
sobriety  and  transcendent  poetical  genius  can  ex- 
ist together.  Before  we  had  been  ten  mmutea 
together,  my  heart  was  knit  to  Southey,  and 
every  hour  thereafter  my  esteem  for  him  in- 
creased. I  breakfasted  with  him  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  remained  with  him  all  that  day  and  the 
next ;  and  the  weather  bemg  fine,  we  spent  the 
lime  in  rambling  on  ihe  hills,  and  sailing  on  the 
lake ;  and  all  the  time  he  manifested  a  delight- 
ful flow  of  spirits,  as  well  as  a  kind  sincenty  of 
manner,  repeating  convivial  poems  and  ballads, 
and  always  between  hands  breaking  jokes  on  his 
nepnew,  young  Coleridge,  in  whom  he  seemed 
to  take  great  delight.  I  objected  to  his  going 
with  Coleridge  and  me,  for  fear  of  his  encroach- 
ing on  his  literary  labors,  but  he  said  he  was  an 
early  riser,  afid  never  suffered  any  task  to  inter- 
fere with  his  social  enjoyments  and  recreations; 
and  along  he  went  with  us  both  days. 

*'  Those  who  would  love  Southey  as  well  as 
admire  him,  must  see  him,  as  I  did,  in  the  bosom 
not  only  of  one  lovely  family,  but  of  three,  all 
attached  to  him  as  a  father,  and  all  elegant- 
ly maintained  and  educated,  it  is  generally  said 
by  his  indefatigable  pen.  Both  his  figure  and 
cdunienance  are  imposing,  and  deep  IhougU  is 
2 


MEMOIR   or 

fitrongly  marked  in  his  dark  eye  ;  bit  there  is  • 
defect  in  his  eye-lids,  for  ihem  he  has  no  power 
of  raising  ;  so  that  when  he  looks  up,  he  tiirna 
up  his  face,  being  unable  to  raise  his  eyes ;  and 
when  he  looks  towards  the  top  of  one  of  his  ro» 
mantic  mountains,  one  would  think  he  was  look- 
ing at  the  zenith.  We  have  only  exchanged  a 
few  casual  letters  since  that  period,  and  I  have 
never  seen  this  great  and  good  man  Eigain." 

Southey  seems  to  consider  it  absurd  that  he 
should  be  classed,  as  he  long  has  been,  with 
Wordsworth  and  others,  as  one  of  the  Lake 
Poets.  "  I  happened,"  he  says  in  one  of  his 
late  prefaces,  "  to  be  residing  at  Keswick,  when 
Mr.  Wordsworth  and  1  began  to  be  acquainted  ; 
Mr.  Coleridge  had  also  resided  there  ;  and  that 
was  reason  enough  for  classing  us  together  as  a 
School  of  Poets.  Accordingly  for  more  than 
twenty  years  from  that  time,  every  tyro  in  cri- 
ticism who  could  smatter  and  sneer,  tried  hia 
'  'prentice  hand'  upon  the  Lake  Poets,  and 
every  young  sportsman,  who  carried  a  pop-gun 
into  the  field  of  satire,  considered  them  as  fair 
game." 

In  1838-9,  at  the  age  of  sixty-four,  Southey 
collected  and  pubhshed  his  Poetical  Works, 
•'  with  the  last  corrections,"  ho.  says,  "  that  I 
can  expect  to  bestowupon  them."  All  the  labors 
of  his  literary  life  are  probably  now  at  an  end. 
Sometime  in  1840,  he  married  for  his  second  wife, 
Caioline  Bowles,  the  Poetess,  a  maiden  lady 
•oraewhat  advanced  in  life  and  a  few  monU>a 


KOBCBT  SOm-iiET.  XIX 

afterwards  he  fell  into  »  ft»*e  <i^  h-'^peless  imbe« 
cility.  In  thw  slate  ho  still  r»a»«ineil,  voording 
to  the  latest  information  cuocenuoA  iv<n 
ed  ia  tJu»  ceuacri. 


CONTENTS 


MfiMare  of  Southey   .        ,       .        .        .  « 

ENGLISH  ECLOOnSS. 

The  Old  Mansion  House  .        .        c        .  27 

The  Sailor's  Mother 35 

The  Witch 42 

The  Wedding             51 

The  Alderman's  Funeral  .        .        .        .  59 

BALLADS   AND  METRICAL  TAI.B8. 

The  Well  of  St.  Keyne     .        .        .        •*  68 

Bishop  Bruno    .        .                .        ,        •  7" 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim     .        .        •        .  7 ' 

St.  Antidius,  the  Pope,  and  the  Devil        .  & 

Gonzalo  Hermiguez ^ 

Queen  Orraca  and  the  Five  Martyrs  of 
Morocco   ...         •       •       •       .89 


XXU  C0NTEKT8. 

FAOB 

The  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley  .        .        .  97 

The  Surgeon's  Warning   ....  106 

Henry  the  Hermit      .        .        •        •        .114 

St.  Gualberto     ......  117 

The  Rose  ...                ...  133 

The  Lover's  Rock 138 

Garci  Ferrandez         .....  141 

King  Ramiro 149 

The  Inchcape  Rock 157 

Mary,  the  Maid  of  the  Inn        .        .        .161 

Donica 169 

Rudiger 175 

Jasper 183 

Lord  William 191 

God's  judgment  on  a  wicked  Bishop          .  197 

King  Henry  V.  and  the  Hermit  of  Dreux  .  202 

Old  Christoval's  Advice    ....  206 

Cornelius  Agrippa 210 

St.'llomauld 213 

Brough  Bells 216 

Queen  Mary's  Christening        .        .        .  222 

MISCELLANEOUS  FOEMt. 

The  Retrospect 833 

Sonnots      .                        ....  242 


!             -  -        - 

CONTENTS.                                XXia 

PAGE 

Remenibianoe    .....             247 

'l                The  Soldier's  Wife    . 

.    250 

The  Widow       . 

.    251 

The  Chapel  Bell 

.     253 

Written  on  Sunday  Morning 

.     255 

Youth  and  Age          .        .        . 

.     257 

1               The  Old  Man's  Comforts 

.    259 

The  Complaints  of  the  Poor 

.    261 

The  Cataract  of  Lodore    . 

.    264 

The  March  to  Moacow 

.    £69 

To  Mary    . 

.    275 

To  Margaret  HiU      . 

.    277 

Epitaph 

.    280 

To  a  Friend 

.     281 

The  Victory       . 

.    283 

The  Soldier's  Funeral 

.    285 

The  Traveller's  Return 

.    288 

ENGLISH  ECLOUGES. 


The  following  Eclogues,  I  believe,  bear  no  re- 
eemblance  to  any  poems  in  our  language.  Thia 
species  of  composition  has  become  popular  in 
Germany,  and  I  was  induced  to  attempt  it  by 
what  was  told  me  of  the  German  Idyls  by  my 
friend  Mr.  William  Taylor  of  Norwich.  So  far, 
therefore,  these  pieces  may  be  deemed  imitations, 
though  I  am  not  acquainted  with  the  German  lan- 
guage at  present,  and  have  never  seen  any  trans 
lations  or  specimens  in  this  kind. 

With  bad  Eclogues  I  am  sufficiently  acquaint- 
ed, from  Tityrusand  Corydon  down  to  our  Eng- 
lish Strephons  and  Thirsisses.  No  kind  of  poetry 
can  boast  of  more  illustrious  names,  or  is  more 
distinguished  by  the  servile  dulness  of  imitated 
nonsense.  Pastoral  writers,  "more  silly  than 
their  sheep,"  have,  like  their  sheep,  gone  on  in 
the  same  track  one  after  another.  Gay  struck 
into  a  new  path.  His  eclogues  were  the  only 
ones  which  interested  me  when  I  was  a  boy,  and 
did  not  know  they  were  burlesque.  The  subject 
would  furnish  matter  for  an  essay,  but  this  is  not 
the  place  for  it. 

1799. 

25 


ENGLISH  ECLOGUES 


THE  OLD  MANSION-HOUSE. 

STRAN&ER. 

Old  friend !  why,  you  seem  bent  on  Parish  duty 
Breakinor  the  highway  stones, — and  'tis  a  task 
Somewhat  too  hard,  methinks,  for  age  like  yours 


Why,  yes  !  for  one  with  such  a  weight  of  years 
Upon  his  l>ack  ! — I've  Uved  here,  man  and  boy, 
In  this  same  parish,  well  nigh  the  full  age 
Of  man,  being  hard  upon  threescore  and  ten, 
I  can  remember,  sixty  years  ago. 
The  beautifying  of  this  mansion  here. 
When  my  late  lady's  father,  the  old  Squire, 
Came  to  the  estate. 

27 


28  THE   OLD    MANSIO.V    HOUSE. 

STRANGER. 

Why,  then  ycu  have  outlasted 
All  his  improvements,  for  you  see  they're  making 
Great  alterations  here. 


Aye — great  mdeed  ! 
And  if  my  poor  lady  could  rise  up — 
God  rest  her  soul ! — 'twould  grieve  her  to  behold 
What  wicked  work  is  here. 


They've  set  about  it 
In  right  good  earnest.     All  the  front  is  gone ; 
Here's  to  be  turf,  they  tell  me,  and  a  road 
Round  to  the  door.    There  were  some  yew  trees 

too 
Stood  in  the  court— 


Ay,  Master :  fine  old  trees ! 
Lord  bless  us  !  I  have  heard  my  father  say 
His  grandfather  could  just  remember  back 
When  they  were  planted  there.     It  was  my  task 
To  keep  them  trimm'd,  and  'twas  a  pleasure  to 

me  ; 
All  straight  and  smooth,  and  like  a  great  greea 

wall ! 


THE   OLD    MA  ISION   HOUSE.  29 


My  poor  old  lady  many  a  time  would  come 
And  teil  me  where  to  clip,  tor  she  had  play'd 
In  childhood  under  them,  and  'twas  her  pride 
To  keep  them  in  their  beauty.     Plague,  I  say, 
On  their  new-tangled  whimseys  I   we  shall  have 
A  modern  shrubberry  here  stuck  full  of  lirs 
And  your  pert  poplar-trees  ; — I  could  as  soon  j 

Have  plough 'd  my  father's  grave  as  cut  thenn  j 

down  ! 


But  'twill  be  lighter  and  more  cheerful  now  ; 
A  tine  smooth  turf,  and  with  a  carriage  road 
That  sweeps  conveniently  from  gate  to  gate, 
I  like  a  shrubbery  too,  for  it   looks  fresh ; 
And  then  there's  some  variety  about  it. 
In  spring,  the  hlac,  and  the  snow-ball  flower, 
And  the  laburnum  with  its  golden  strings  I 

I  Waving  in  the  wind;   and  when  the  autumn 

!  comes,  I 

The  bright  red  berries  of  the  mountain-ash, 
With  pines  enough  in  winter  to  look  green,  ! 

And  show  that  something   hves.     Sure  this  is  | 

better  j 

Than  a  great  hedge  of  yew,  making  it  look  i 

All  the  year  round  hke  winter,  and  forever  I 

Dropping  its  poisonous  leavrs  from  the  und«»l  | 

boughs,  I 

Wither' d  and  bare.  i 


so  THE  OLD    MANSION    HOIT9S. 

OLD    MAN. 

Ay !  so  the  new  Squire  thinks , 
And  pretty  work  he  makes  of  it !     What  'tis 
To  have  a  stranger  come  to  an  old  house ! 

STRANGER. 

It  seems  you  know  him  not  ? 

OLD   MAN. 

No,  sir,  not  I. 
They  tell  me  he's  expected  daily  now; 
But  in  my  lady's  time  he  never  came 
But  once,  for  they  were  very  distant  kin. 
If  he  had  pkiy'd  about  here  when  a  child 
In  that  fore  court,  and  eat  the  yew-berries. 
And  sate  in  the  porch,  threading  the  jessamina 

flowers, 
Which  fell  so  thick,  he  had  not  had  the  heart 
To  mar  all  thus ! 

STRANGER. 

Come  !  come !  all  is  not  wrong ; 
Those  old  dark  windows — 


They're  demolish'd  too,— 
As  if  he  could  not  see  through  casement  glass ! 
The  very  red-breasts,  that  so  regular 


THE   OLD    MANSION    HOUSE. 

Came  to  my  lady  for  her  morning  crumbs, 
Won't  know  the  windows  now ! 


Nay,  they  were  smallj 
And  then  so  darken'd  round  with  jessamine, 
Harboring  the  vermin  ; — yet  1  could  have  wish*d 
That  jessamine  had  been  saved,  which  canopied} 
And  bower' d,  and  hned  the  norch. 


It  did  one  good 
To  pass  within  ten  yards,  when  'twas  in  blossom. 
There  was  a  sweet-brier,  too,  that  grew  beside ; 
My  lady  loved  at  evening  to  sit  there 
And  knit ;  and  her  old  dog  lay  at  her  feet 
And  slept  in  the  sun  ;  'twas  an  old  favorite  dog,— 
She  did  not  love  him  less  that  he  was  old 
And  feeble,  and  he  always  had  a  place 
By  the  fire-side :  and  when  he  died  at  last. 
She  made  me  dig  a  grave  in  the  garden  for  him, 
For  she  was  good  to  all !  a  woful  day 
'Twas  for  the  poor  when  to  her  grave  she  went  . 

STBANGER. 

Thev  lost  a  friend  then  ? 

OLD    MAN. 

You're  a  stranger  here, 


1 1 
I 


32  THE   OLD    MANSION    HOUSE.  j 

Or  you  wouldn't  ask  that  question.     Were  they 

sick? 
She  had  rare  cordial  waters,  and  for  herbs 
She  could  have  taught  the  Doctors.     Then  n 

winter,  ''\ 

When  weekly  she  distributed  the  bread  ! 

In  the  poor  old  porch,  to  see  her  and  to  hear 
The  blessings  on  her !  and  I  warrant  them 
They  were  a  blessing  to  her  when  her  wealth  . . 

Had  been  no  comfort  else.      At  Christmas,  sir!  'j 

It  would  have  warm'd  your  heart  if  you  had  seen  '■  j 

Her  Christmas  kitchen, — how  the  blazing  fire 
Made  her  fine  pewter  shine,  and  holly  boughs 
So  cheerful  red — and  as  for  mistletoe, — 
The  finest  bush  that  grew  in  the  country  round 
Was  mark'd  for  madam.    Then  her  old  ale  went 
So  bountiful  about !  a  Christmas  cask, 
And  'twas'a  noble  one  ! — God  help  me,  sir ! 
But  I  shall  never  see  such  days  again, 

STRANGER. 

Things  may  be  better  yet  than  you  suppose, 
And  you  should  hope  the  best. 


It  don't  look  well,— 
These  alterations,  sir  !  I'm  an  old  man. 
And  love  the  good  old  fashions ;  we  don't  find 
Old  bounty  in  new  houses.     They've  destroy'd 
All  that  my  lady  loved ;  her  favorite  walk 


THE   OLD    MANSION    HOUSE.  33 

Grubb'd  up, — and  they  do  say  that  the  great  row 
Of  elms  behind  the  house,  which  meet  a-top, 
They  must   fall  too.      Well !  well !  I  did  not 

think 
To  live  to  see  all  this;  and  'tis  perhaps 
A  comk)rt  I  shan't  live  to  see  it  long. 

STRANGER. 

But  sure  all  changes  are  not  needs  for  the  worse, 
My  friend  ? 


Mayhap  they  mayn't,  sir; — for  all  that, 
I  hke  what  I've  been  used  to.     I  remember 
A 11  this  from  a  child  up  ;  and  now  to  lose  it, 
'Tip  \os\r.'d  an  old  friend.     There's  nothing  left 
As  'twas  ; — I  go  abroad,  and  only  meet 
With  men  whose  fathers  I  remember  boys; 
The  brook  that  used  to  run  before  my  door, 
Thai's  gone  to  the  great  pond  ;  the  trees  I  learnt 
To  climb  are  down  ;  and  I  see  nothing  now 
That  tells  me  of  old  times, — except  the  stones 
In  the  churchyard.      You  are  young,  sir,  andl 

hope 
Have  many  years  in  store, — but  pray  to  God 
You  mayn't  be  left  the  last  of  all  your  friends. 

STRANGER. 

Well  J  well !  you've  one  friend  more  than  you  ro 
aware  oC 

3 


S4  THE   OLD   MANSION   HOUSE. 

If  the   Squire's  taste  don't  suit  with  youis,  1 

warrant 
That's  all  you'll  quarrel  with  :  walk  in  and  taste 
His  beer,  old  friend  !  and  see  if  your  old  lady 
E'er  broach'd  a  better  cask.     You  did  not  know 

roe, 
But  we're   acquainted  now.    'Twould  not  be 

easy 
To  make  you  like  the  outside ;  but  within, 
That  is  not  changed,  my  friend  !  you'll  always 

find 
The  same  old  bounty  and  old  welccme  there. 

ITeitbury,  nm. 


THE  SAILOR'S  MOTHER. 


WOHAV. 

Sir,  for  the  love  of  God,  some  small  relief 
To  a  poo;,  woman ! 

TRA.VELLER. 

Whither  are  you  bound  I 
*Ti8  a  late  hour  to  travel  o'er  these  downs, 
No  house  for  miles  around  us,  and  the  way 
Dreary  and  wild.     The  evening  wind  already 
Makes  one's  teeth  chatter ;  and  the  very  sun. 
Setting  so  pale  behind  those  thin  white  clouds, 
Looks  cold.    *  Twill  be  a  bitter  night » 

WOMAH 

Ay,  Sir, 
•Tis  cutting  keen !  I  smart  at  every  breath ; 
Heaven  knows  how  I  shall  reach  my  journey'* 

end, 
For  the  wav  is  \ons  before  me,  and  my  feet. 


36  THE   SAILOR*S   MOTHER. 

God  help  me  I   sore  with  travelling.    I  would 

gladly, 
If  it  pleased  God,  at  once  lie  down  and  die. 

TRAVELLER. 

Nay,  nay,  cheer  up!  a  little  food  and  rest 
Will  comfort  yon  ;  and  then  your  journey's  end, 
May  make  amends  for  all.  You  shake  your  head, 
And  weep.     Is  it  some  mournful  business  then 
That  leads  you  from  your  home  ? 


Sir,  I  am  going 
To  see  my  son  at  Plymouth,  sadly  hurt 
In  the  late  action   and  in  the  hospital 
Dying,  I  fear  me,  now. 

TRAVELLER. 

Perhaps  your  fears 
Make  evil  worse.     Even  if  a  limb  be  lost. 
There  may  be  still  enough  for  comfort  left ; 
An  arm  or  leg  shot  off,  there's  yet  the  heart 
To  keep  life  warm  ;  and  he  mav  Hve  to  talk 
With  pleasure  of  the  glorious  fight  that  maim'd 

him. 
Proud  of  his  loss.     Old  England's  gratitude 
Makes  the  maim'd  Sailor  happy. 


'Ti?  not  that,— 
An  arm  or  leg — I  could  have  borne  with  that. 


THE  sailor's  mother.  37 

It  was  no  ball,  Sir,  but  some  cursed  thing 
Which  bursts*  and  burns,  that  hurt  him.  Some. 

thing-.  Sir, 
They  do  not  use  on  board  our  English  ships, 
It  is  so  wicked ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Rascals  I  a  mean  art 
Of  cruel  cowardice,  yst  all  in  vain  ! 


Y"es,  Sir !  and  they  should  show  no  mercy  to 

them 
For  making  use  of  such  unchristian  arms. 
I  had  a  letter  from  the  hospital ; 
He  got  some  friend  to  write  it ;  and  he  tells  me 
That  my  poor  boy  has  lost  his  precious  eyes, 
Burnt  out.     Alas!  that  I  should  ever  live 
To  see  this  wretched  day ! — -^hey  tell  me,  Sir, 
There  is  no  cure  for  wounds  like  his.     Indeed 
'Tis  a  hard  journey  that  I  go  upon 
To  such  a  dismal  end  ! 


♦  The  Slink-pots  used  on  board  the  French  ships.  In 
\he  enpaeement  between  tlie  Mars  and  L'Hercule,  soma 
of  our  sailors  were  shockinTly  mangled  by  them ;  one,  in 

fiarticiilar,  as  described  in  the  Eclodue,  lost  both  his  eyes. 
I  would  be  risht  and  humane  to  employ  means  of  de-  j 

Btn;ction.  could  they  be  discovered,  powerful  enough  to 
destrny  flppis  and  armies;  but  to  use  any  thing  that  only 
iuflictis  additiona  torture  upon  the  r ufferers  in  war,  is  ai 
together  wicked. 


38  THE  sailor's  mother. 

TRAVELLER. 

He  yet  may  live. 
But  if  the  worst  should  chance,  why,  you  must 

bear 
The  will  of  Heaven  with  patience.     Were  it  not 
Some  comfort  to  reflect  your  son  has  fallen 
Fighting  his  country's  cause  ?  and  for  yourself, 
You  will  not  in  unpitied  poverty 
Be  left  to  mourn  his  loss.    Your  grateful  country, 
Amid  the  triumph  of  her  victory, 
Remembers  those  who  paid  its  price  of  blood, 
And  with  a  noble  charity  relieves 
The  widow  and  the  orphan. 


God  reward  them  ! 
God  bless  them  !  It  will  help  me  in  my  age,— 
But,  Sir  !  it  will  not  pay  me  for  my  child  ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Was  he  your  only  child  ? 

WOMAW. 

My  only  one, 
The  stay  and  comfort  of  my  widowhood, 
A  dear,  good  boy  ! — When  first  he  went  to  sea, 
I  fell  what  it  would  come  .to  — something  told 

me 
I  should  be  childless  soon.     But  tell  me,  Sir,  j 


THE  sailor's  mother,  39 

If  it  be  true  that  for  a  hurt  like  his 
There  is  no  cure.     Please  God  to  spare  his  life. 
Though  he  be  bUnd,  yet  I  should  be  so  thankful' 
I  can  remember  there  was  a  blind  man 
Lived  in  our  village,  one  from  his  youth  up 
Quite  dark,  and  yet  he  was  a  merry  man ; 
And  he  had  none  to  tend  on  him  so  well 
As  I  would  tend  my  boy ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Of  this  be  sure — 
His  hurts  are  look'd  to  well,  arid  the  best  help 
The  land  affords,  as  rightly  is  his  due, 
Ever  at  hand.     How  happen'd  it  he  left  you? 
Was  a  seafaring  life  his  early  choice  ? 


No,  Sir  r  poor  fellow, — he  was  wise  enough 
To  be  content  at  home,  and  'twas  a  home 
As  comfortable.  Sir  !  even  though  I  say  it, 
As  any  in  the  country.     He  was  left 
A  little  boy  when  his  poor  father  died, 
Just  old  enough  to  totter  by  himself, 
And  call  his  mother's  name.     We  two  were  all, 
And  as  we  were  not  left  quite  destitute, 
We  bore  up  well.  In  the  summer  time  I  work'd 
Soaieinnes  a-field.     Then  I  was  famed  for  knit- 
ting; 
And  in  long  winter  nights  my  spinning-wheel 
Seldom  stood  still.     We  had  kind  neighbors  too, 
And  never  felt  distress.    So  he  grew  up 


40  THE  sailor's  mother. 

A  comely  lad,  and  wondrous  well  disposed. 
I  taught  him  well ;  there  was  not  in  the  parish 
A  child  who  said  his  prayers  more  regular, 
Or  answered  readier  through  his  Catechism. 
Ill  had  foreseen  this  I  but  'tis  a  blessing 
We  don' I  know  what  we'er  born  to  I 

TRAVELLER. 

But  how  came  it 
He  chose  to  be  a  Sailor  ? 

WOMAN. 

You  shall  hear,  Sir. 
As  he  grew  up,  he  used  to  watch  the  birds 
In  the  corn, — child's  work,  you  know,  and  easily 

done. 
'Tis  an  idle  sort  of  task  ;  so  he  built  up 
A  little  hut  of  wicker-work  and  clay 
Under  the  hedge,  to  shelter  him  in  rain ; 
And  then  he  took,  for  very  idleness. 
To  making  traps  to  catch  the  plunderers  ; 
All  sorts  ot  cunning  traps  that  boys  can  make,— 
Propping  a  stone  to  fall  and  shut  them  in. 
Or  crush  the4n   with  its  weight,  or  else  a  spring 
Swung  on  a  bough.     He  made  them  cleverly — 
And  I,  poor  foolish  woman  !  I  was  pleased 
To  see  the  boy  so  handy.     You  may  guess 
What  follow' d,  Sir,  Irom  this  unlucky  skill. 
He  did  what  he  should  not  when  he  was  older . 
I  warn'd  hun  oft  enough  ;  but  he  was  caught 
In  wiring  hares  at  last,  and  had  his  choice. 
The  prison  or  the  s'aip. 


THE  sailor's  mother.  41 


TRAVELLER. 


The  choice  at  least 
Was  kindly  left  him  ;  and  for  broken  laws 
This  was,  methinks,  no  heavv  punishment. 


So  I  was  told,  Sir.     And  I  tried  to  think  soj 
But  'twas  a  sad  blow  to  me ;  I  was  used 
To  sleep  at  nights  as  sweetly  as  a  child  ; — 
Now,  if  the  wind  blew  rough,  it  made  me  start. 
And  think  of  my  poor  boy  tossing  about 
Upon  the  roaring  seas.     And  then  I  seem'd 
To  feel  that  it  was  hard  to  take  him  from  me 
For  such  a  little  fault.     But  he  was  wrong, 
Oh.  very  wrong, — a  murrain  on  his  traps! 
See  what  they've  brought  him  to ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Well !  well !  take  comfort. 
He  will  be  taken  care  of,  if  he  lives; 
And  should  you  lose  your  child,  this  is  a  country 
Where  the  brave  Sailor  never  leaves  a  parent 
To  weep  for  him  in  want. 


Sir,  I  shall  want 
No  succor  long.    In  the  common  course  of  ynuv 
I  soon  must  be  at  rest ;  and  'tis  a  comibrt, 
When  grief  is  hard  upon  me,  to  reflect 
It  only  leads  me  to  that  rest  the  sooner. 


M^esthu  y,  1798. 


THE  WITCH. 


HATBANIKL. 


Father  !  here,  father !    I  have  fo and  a  horae* 

shoe ! 
Faith,  it  was  just  in  time ;  for  t'other  night 
I  laid  two  straws  across  at  Margery's  door ; 
And  ever  since  I  fear'd  that  she  might  do  me 
A  mischief  for't.     There  was  the  Miller's  boy 
Who  set  his  dog  at  that  black  cat  of  hers, — 
I  met  him  upon  crutches,  and  he  told  me 
*Twa3  all  her  evil  eye. 


*Ti8  rare  good  luck  ! 
I  would  have  gladly  given  a  croMm  for  one, 
If  'twould  have  done  as  well.    But  where  didst 
find  it? 

NATHANIEL. 

Down  on  the  common  ;  I  was  going  a-field, 

42 


THE   WITCH. 


4d 


And  neighbor  Saunders  pass'd  me  ou  his  mare  ; 
He  hod  hardly  said  "  Good  day,"  before  I  saw 
The  shoe  drop  off.  'Twas  just  upon  my  tongue 
To  call  him  back;  it  makes  no  difference,  does  it, 
Because  I  know  whose  'twas  t 


FATHEIU 

Why,  no,  it  can't. 
The  shoe's  the  same,  you  know  ;  and  you  did 
find  it. 

NATHANIEL. 

That  mare  of  his  has  got  a  plaguy  road 

To  travel,  father ;  and  if  he  should  lame  her,— 

For  she  is  but  tender-footed,- 


Ay,  indeed  t 

I  should  not  like  to  see  her  limping  back, 
Poor  beast ! — But  charity  begins  at  home ; 
And,  Nat,  there's  our  own  horse  in  such  a  way 
This  morning  ! 

NATHANIEL. 

Why,  he  han't  been  rid  again ! 
Last  night  I  hung  a  pebble  by  the  manger. 
With  a  hole  through,  and  every  body  says 
That  'tis  a  special  charm  against  the  hags. 


14  THE   WITCH. 


ft  could  not  be  a  proper,  natural  hole  then,  jl 

Or  'twas  not  a  right  pebble  ; — for  I  found  him  !j 

Smoking  with  sweat,  quaking  in  every  limb,  |.| 

And  panting  feo  !  Lord  knows  where  he  had  been  ; ' 

When  we   were  all  asleep,  through  bush  and  j: 

brake,  j 
Up-hill  and  down-hill  all  alike,  full  stretch 
At  such  a  deadly  rate  I  — 

NATHANIEL.  | 

By  land  and  water, 

Over  the  sea,  perhaps! — I  have  heard  tell  ,■ 

'Tis  many  thousand  miles  off  at  the  end  \<, 

Of  the  world,   where  witches  go  to  meet  the  jj 

devil.  !! 

They  used  to  ride  on  broomsticks,  and  to  smear  \\ 

Some  ointment  over  them,  and  then  away  j! 

Out  at  the  window  !  but  'tis  worse  than  all  jj 

To  worry  the  poor  beast  so.     Shame  upon  it  ij 

That  in  a  Christian  country  they  should  let  H 

Such  creatures  live  I  ;! 

FATHER. 

And  when  there's  such  plain  proof! 
I  did  but  threaten  her  because  she  robb'd 
Our  hedge,  and  the  next  night  there  came  a  wind 
That  made  me  shake  to  hear  it  in  my  bed. 
How  came  it  that  that  storm  unroofd  my  barn, 

And  only  mine  in  the  parish  ? — Look  at  her,  i 

I 


THE   WITCH.  45 

And  that's  enough  ;  she  has  it  in  her  face  '  — 
A  pair  of  large,  dead  eyes,  sunk  n  her  head, 
Just  like  a  corpse,   and  pursed  with  wrinkles 

round ; 
A  nose  and  chin  that  scarce  leave  room  between 
For  her  lean  fingers  to  squeeze  in  the  snuff; 
And  when  she  speaks!  I'd  sooner  hear  a  raven 
Croak   at  my  door !  She  sits  there,  nose  and 

knees, 
Smoke-dried  and  shrivell'd  over  a  starved  fire, 
With  that  black  cat  beside  her,  whose  great  eyes 
Shine  like  old  Beelzebub's;  and  to  be  sure 
It  must  be  one  of  his  imps ! — Ay,  nail  it  hard, 

NATHANIEL. 

I  wish  old  Margery  heard  the  hammer  go! 
She'd  curse  the  music  I 


Here's  the  curate  coming, 
He  ought  to  rid  the  parish  of  such  vermin  ! 
In  the  old  times  they  used  to  hunt  them  out. 
And  hang  them  without  mercy  ;  but,  Lord  bles* 

us ! 
The  world  is  grown  so  wicked  ! 


Good  day.  Farmer' 
Natlianiel,  what  art  nailing  to  the  threshold  ? 


I  i6  THE   WITCH. 

I  NATHANIEL. 

|j  A  horse-shoe,  Sir;  'tis  good  to  keep  off  witdk  j: 

ij  craff; 

■j  And  we're  afraid  of  Margery. 

CUBATE.  }  I 

ii 

Poof  oW  woman  j  j 

What  can  you  fear  from  her  ?  j ; 

Ii 

j!  FATHKB.  •  Ii 

j  1  What  can  we  fear  ! 

!l  Who  lamed  the  Miller's  boy?  who  raised  the  .. 

I  wind  I 

I  That  blew  my  old  barn's  roof  down  ?  who  d'ye  i 

I  think  j 

!  Rides  my  poor  horse  a' nights  ?  who  mocks  the  i 

ii  hounds?  i: 


L. 


But  let  me  catch  her  at  that  trick  again, 

And  I've  a  silver  bullet  ready  for  her. 

One  that  shall  lame  her,  double  how  she  will. 


NATHANIEL. 


What  makes  her  sit  there  moping  by  herself, 

With  no  soul  near  her  but  that  great  black  catf  j 

And  lo  but  look  at  her  ! 

C17BATE. 

Poor  wretch!  halfblin^ 


THE   "WTTCH.  47 

And  crooked  with  her  year^,  without  a  child, 
Or  friend  in  hri-  old  aj^e,  'tis  hard  indeed 
To  liave  her  very  uii -tries  made  her  crimes  1 
I  met  her  but  last  week  in  ihaf  hard  frost 
Which  made  m^  j'./uip^  limbs  ache,  and  when 

I  askd 
What  broijgljt  iter  out  in  the  snow,  the  poorold 

Worn  ill 
Tcld  me  that  .-lie  was  forced  to  crawl  abroad 
And  pick  the  iiedges,  ju?t  to  keep  herself 
From  perishing  with  cold, — becau>e  no  neigbor 
Had  pity  on  her  a^fe ;  and  then  slie  cried, 
And  said  the  children  pelted  her  with  snow- 
balls, 
And  wishd  that  she  were  dead. 

FATHER. 

I  wish  she  was 
She  has  plagued  the  parish  long  enough  ! 


Shame,  Farmer 
Is  that  the  charity  your  Bible  teaches? 

FATHER. 

My  Bible  does  not  teach  me  to  love  witches 
1  I; now  what'-^  charity;  wljo  pays  his  tithes 
And  i*Mt  ■  rates  readier  ? 

CHTKATiE. 

Who  can  better  do  it  I 


48  THE  WITCH. 

You've  been  a  prudent  and  industrious  man, 
And  God  has  blest  your  labor. 


Why,  thank  God,  Sir, 
I've  had  no  reason  to  complain  of  fortune. 


Complain  ?  why,  you  are  wealthy !  All  the  parish 
Look  up  to  you. 


Perhaps,  Sir,  I  could  tell 
Juinea  for  guinea  with  the  warmest  of  them 


You  can  aflTord  a  little  to  the  poor ; 

And  then,  what's  better  still,  you  have  the  heart 

To  give  from  your  abundance. 

FATHER. 

God  forbid 
I  should  want  charity  ! 

CURATE. 

Oh  !  'tis  a  comfort 
To  think  at  last  of  riches  well  employ'd  ! 


THE  wrrcn.  49 

I  have  been  by  a  death-bed.  and  know  the  ^orth 
Of  a  good  deed  at  that  mosi  awful  hour 
When  riches  profit  not. 

Farmer,  I'm  going 
To  visit  Margery.     She  is  sick,  I  hear  ; — 
Old,  poor,  and  sick  !  a  miserable  lot ; 
And  death  will  be  a  blessing.     You  might  send 

her 
Some  little  matter,  something  comfortable, 
That  she  may  go  down  easier  to  the  grave, 
And  bless  you  when  she  dies. 


What !  is  she  going ! 
Well,  God  forgive  her  then,  if  she  has  dealt 
In  the  black  art !  I'll  tell  my  dame  of  it, 
And  she  shall  send  her  something. 

CURATE. 

So  I'll  say ; 
And  take  my  thanks  for  hers.  [  Goes. 

FATHER. 

That's  a  good  man, 

That  Curate.  Nat,  of  ours,  to  go  and  visit 
The  poor  in  sickness  ;  but  he  don't  believe 
In  witchcraft,  and  that  is  not  hke  a  Christian. 

NATHANIEL. 

A.nd  so  old  Margery's  dying ! 
4 


50  TBE   WITCH* 

FATHER. 

But  you  know 
She  may  recover :  so  drive  t'other  nail  in. 

WeObury   1798 


THE  WEDDING. 


TRAVELLXR. 


I  PRAT  yon ,  wherefore  are  the  village  belb 
Ringing  so  merrily  ? 


A  wedding,  Sir,— 
Two  of  the  village  folk.    And  they  are  right 
To  make  a  merry  time  on't  while  they  may ! 
Come  twelve-months  hence,  I  warrant  theon 

they'd  go 
To  church  ao;ain  more  willingly  than  now ; 
K  all  might  be  undone. 

TRAVELLER. 

An  ill-match*d  pair, 
tJo  I  conceive  you.    Youth  perhaps  and  age  f 

51 


ii  ! 

li  i 

1;  92  THE  W£DDlIf&.  I 


WOMAN. 

No,— rboth  are  young  enough. 


i 

li 
.    !i 

TRAVELLER.  >j 

Perhaps  the  man,  fhen«  jj 

A  lazy  idler, — one  who  better  likes  ij 

The  alehouse  than  his  work?  ', 

I 

WOMAN.  I 

Why,  Sir,  for  that,  \ 

He  always  was  a  well-conditioii'd  lad,  j 

One  who'd  work  hard  and  well ;  and-as  for  drink,  } 

Sove  now  and  then,  mayhap,  at  Chrisinoas  timet  :• 

Sober  as  wife  could  wish.  •  1 1 

ii 

TRAVELLER.  |i 

Then  is  the  girl 
A  shrew,  or  else  untidy  ; — one  to  welcome 
Her  husband  with  a  rude,  unruly  tongue, 
Or  drive  him  from  a  foul  and  wretched  home 
To  look  elsewhere  for  comfort.    Is  it  so  f 


She*s  notable  enough  ;  and  as  for  temper,  ij 

The  best  L'ood-bumor'd  girl  I  You  see  yon  house,  f 

There  by  the  aspen-tree,  whose  gray  leaves  shina  h 

In  the  wind  ?  slie  lived  a  servant  at  the  farm.  i! 

And  often,  as  I  came  to  weeding  here,  j' 

I,ve  heard  her  singing  as  she  milk'd  her  cows  [} 

So  cheerfully.     I  did  not  like  to  hear  her,  :! 


THE  WEDDING. 

Because  it  maoe  me  think  upon  the  days 
When  I  had  got  as  Uttle  on  my  mind, 
And  was  as  cheerful  too.    But  she  would  marry. 
And  ffl  Iks  must  reap  as  they  have  sown.     God 
help  her ! 

TEA.VELLER. 

Why,  Mistress,  if  they  both  are  well  inclined, 
Why  should  not  botn  be  happy  ? 


They've  no  money. 

TRAVELLER. 

But  both  can  work ;  and  sure  as  cheerfully 
She'd  labor  for  herself  as  at  the  farm. 
And  he  won't  work  the  worse  because  he  knows 
That  she  will  make  his  fire-side  ready  for  him, 
And  watch  for  his  return. 


All  very  well, 
A  little  while. 

TRAVELLER, 

And  what  if  they  are  poor? 
Riches  can't  always  purchase  happiness  ; 
And  m  ich  we  know  will  be  expected  there 
Where  much  was  given. 


64  THE  WEDDIW5, 


All  this  I  have  heard  at  church  ! 
And  when  I  walk  in  the  church-yard,  or  have 

been 
By  a  death-bed,  'tis  mighty  comforting. 
But  when  I  hear  my  children  cry  for  hunger. 
And  see  them  shiver  in  their  rags, — God  help 

me  I 
I  pity  those  for  whom  these  bells  ring  up 
So  merrily  upon  their  wedding  day, 
Because  I  think  of  mine. 

IRAVELLER. 

You  have  known  trouble  ; 
These  haply  may  be  happier. 


Why,  for  that, 
I've  had  my  share  ;  some  sickness  and  some 

sorrow. 
Well  will  it  be  for  them  to  know  no  worse. 
Yet  I  had  rather  hear  a  daughter's  knell 
Than  her  wedding-peal.  Sir,  if  I  thought  her  fate 
Promised  no  better  things. 

TRAVELLER. 

Sure,  sure,  good  woman, 
You  look  upon  the  world  with  jaundiced  eyes  ! 
AJl  have  their  cares  ;  those  who  aie  poor  want 
wealth 


THE   WEDL'lNff.  54 

They  who  have  wealth  want  more ;  so  are  we  all 
Dissatisfied  ;  yet  all  live  on,  and  each 
Has  his  own  comforts. 


Sir !  d'ye  see  that  horse 
Turn'd  out  to  common  here  by  the  way-side  ? 
He's  high  in  bone  ;  you  may  tell  every  rib 
Even  at  this  distance.     Mind  him  !  how  he  turns 
His  head,  to  drive  away  the  flies  that  feed 
On  his  gall'd  shoulder!  there's  just  grass  enough 
To  disappoint  his  whetted  appetite. 
You  see  his  comforts,  Sir  ! 

TRAVELLER. 

A  wretched  beast ! 
Hard  labor  and  worse  usage  he  endures 
From  some  bad  master.     But  the  lot  of  the  poor 
Is  not  like  this. 


In  truth  it  is  not,  Sir  ! 
For  when  the  horse  lies  down  at  night,  no  cares 
About  to-morrow  vex  him  in  his  dreams: 
He  knows  no  quarter-day  ;  and  when  he  gets 
Some  musty  hay  or  patch  of  hedge-row  grass, 
He  has  no  hiingry  children  to  claim  part 
Of  his  half  meal ! 


56  THE  WEDDIN&. 

TRAVELLER. 

'Tis  idleness  makes  want, 
And  idle  habits.    If  the  man  will  go 
And  spend  his  evenings  by  the  alehouse  fire, 
Whom  can  he  blame  tf  there  be  want  at  home  ? 


Ay  !  idleness  !  the  rich  folks  never  fail 
To  find  some  reason  why  the  poor  deserve 
Their  miseries  ! — Is  it  idleness,  I  pray  you, 
That  brings  the  fever  or  the  ague  fit  ? 
That  makes  the  sick  one's  sickly  appetite 
From  dry  bread  and  potatoes  turn  away  ? 
Is  it  idleness  that  makes  small  wages  fail 
For  growing   wants? — Six  years  agone,  these 

bells 
Rung  on  my  wedding-day,  and  I  was  told 
What  I  might  look  for ;  but  I  did  not  heed 
Good  counsel.     I  had  lived  in  service.  Sir  ; 
Knew  never  what  it  was  to  want  a  meal ; 
Lay   down   without  one    thought   to  keep   m« 

sleepless, 
Or  trouble  me  in  sleep  ;  had  for  a  Sunday 
My  linen  gown,  and  when  the  pedlar  came, 
Could  buy  me  a  new  ribbon.     And  my  hus- 
band,— 
A  towardly  young  man,  and  well  to  do, — 
He  had  his  silver  buckles  and  his  watch  ; 
There  was  not  in  the  village  one  who  look'd 
Sprucer  on  holydays.     We  married,  Sir, 


THE   WEDDINCJ.  5? 

And  wc  had  children  ;  but  while  wains  increased 
Wages  stood  still.     The  silver  buckles  went ; 
So  went  the  watch ;  and  when  the  holyday  coat 
Was  worn  to  work,  no  new*  one  in  its  place. 
For  me — you  see  my  rags  !  but  I  deserve  them, 
For  wilfully,  hke  this  new  married  pair, 
I  went  to  my  undoing. 

TRAVELLER- 

But  the  parish — 


Ay,  it  falls  heavy  fchere ;  and  yet  their  pittance 
Just  serves  to  keep  life  in.     A  blessed  prospect, 
To  slave  while  there  is  strength  •  in  age  the  work- 
house ; 
A  parish  shell  at  last,  and  the  little  bell 
Toll'd  hastily  for  a  pauper's  funeral ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Is  this  your  child  ? 

♦  A  farmer  once  told  the  author  of  Malvern  Hill*,  "that 
he  almoei  consuntly  remarked  a  gradation  of  changes  in 
those  men  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  employing.  Young 
men,  he  s  lid,  were  generally  neat  in  their  appearance, 
active  and  cheerful,  till  they  became  married  and  had  a 
family,  when  he  had  observed  that  their  silver  buttons, 
buckles,  and  watches  gradually  disappeared,  and  their 
Sunday  clothes  became  common,  without  anv  other  to  sup- 
ply their  p\^ce,—bul,a2ii(\  he,  satne  go(yl  comes  J rom  thiSt  . 
for  they  trill  then  work  for  whatever  chey  can  get." 
Nota  toCoTTi^'s  iJioirem  HilU. 


58  THE  WSDDUrO. 

WOMAN. 

Ay,  Sir  ;  and  were^ie  dress*d 
And  clean'd,  he'd  be  as  fine  a  boy  to  look  on 
As  the  Squire's  young  master.     These  thin  rags 

of  his 
Let  comfortably  in  the  summer  wind  ; 
But  when  the  winter  comes,  it  pinches  me 
To  see  the  Uttle  wretch.     I've  three  besides  ; 
And, — God  forgive  me  !  but  I  often  wish 
To  see  them  in  their  coffins — God  reward  you . 
God  bless  you  for  your  charity  ! 

TRAVELLER. 

You  have  taught  me 
To  give  sad  meaning  to  the  village  bells  I 

Bristol,  180a 


IHE  ALDERMAN  S  FUNERAL. 


STRAKaER. 

Whom  are  they  ushering  from  the  world,  with  all 
This  pageantry  and  long  parade  of  death  ? 

TOWNSMAN. 

A  long  parade,  indeed,  Sir,  and  yet  here 

You  8ee  but  half;  round  yonder  bend  it  reaches 

A  fiirlong  further,  carriage  behind  carriage. 

SmANGER. 

Tis  but  a  mournful  aight ;  and  yet  the  pon  > 
Tempts  me  to  stand  a  gazer. 


TOWNSMAN. 


Yonder  school-boy, 
59 


60  THE  alderman's  icnekal. 

Who  plays  the  truant,  says  the  proclamation 
Of  peace  was  nothing  to  the  show  ;  and  even 
The  chairing  of  the  members  at  election 
Would  not  have  been  a  finer  sight  than  this; 
Only  that  red  and  green  are  prettier  colors 
Than  all  this  mournirg.    There,  Sir.  you  behold 
One  of  the  red-gown  d  worthies  of  the  city, 
The  envy  and  the  boast  of  our  exchange  ; — 
Ay,  what  was  worth,  last  week,  a  good  half 

million, 
Screw'd  down  in  yonder  hearse  ! 

stranger. 

Then  he  was  born 
Under  a  lucky  planet,  who  to-day 
Puts  mourning  on  for  his  inheritance. 

TOWNSMAN. 

When  first  I  heard  his  death,  that  very  wish 
Leap'd  to  my  lips  ;  but  now  the. closing  scene 
Of  the  comedy  hath  waken'd  wiser  thoughts; 
And  I  bless  God,  that,  when  I  go  to  the  grave, 
There  wall  not  be  the  weight  of  wealth  like  his 
To  sink  me  down. 

stranger. 

The  camel  and  the  needle, — 
[s  that  then  in  your  mind  ? 

TOWNSMAN. 

Even  so.     The  text 


THE  alderman's  FUNERAL.      .  61 

Is  Gospel- wisdom.     I  would  ride  the  camel, — 
Yea,  leap  him,  flying,  through  the  needle's  eye, 
As  easily  as  such  a  pamper'd  soul 
Could  pass  the  narrow  gate. 

STRANGER. 

Your  pardon,  Sir, 
But  sure  this  lack  of  Christian  charity 
Looks  not  hke  Christian  truth. 

TOWNSMAN. 

Your  pardon  too.  Sir, 
If,  with  this  text  before  me,  I  should  feel 
In  the  preaching  mood !     But  for  these  barren 

fig-trees. 
With  all  their  flourish  and  their  leafiness. 
We  have  been  told  their  destiny  and  use, 
When  the  axe  is  laid  unto  the  root,  and  they 
Cumber  the  earth  no  longer. 

STRANGER. 

Was  his  wealth 
Stored  fraudfully — the  spoil  of  orphans  wrong'd, 
And  widows  who  had  none  to  plead  their  right  f 

TOWNSMAN. 

All  honest,  open,  honorable  gains. 

Fair,  legal  interest,  bonds  and  trortgages, 

Ships  to  the  East  and  West. 


Why  judge  you  then 
So  hardly  of  the  dead  ? 


62  THE  alderman's  FUNERA"*. 

TOWNSMAN. 

*For  what  he  left 
Undone  ; — for  sins,  not  one  of  which  is  written 
In  the   Ten  Commandments.     He,  I  warrant 

him, 
Believed  no  other  Gods  than  those  of  the  Creed ; 
Bow'd  to  no  idols,  but  his  money-bags  ; 
Swore  no  false  oaths,   except  at  the  custom- 
house ; 
Kept  the  Sabbath  idle  ;  built  a  monument 
To  honor  his  dead  father  ;  did  no  murder ; 
Never  sustain'd  an  action  for  crim-con  ; 
Never  pick'd  pockets  ;  never  bore  false  witness; 
And  never,  with  that  all-oommanding  wealth, 
Coveted  liis  neighbor's  house,  nor  ox,  nor  ass! 

STRAN&ER. 

You  knew  him,  then,  it  seems  ? 

TOWNSMAN. 

As  all  men  kno\i 
The  vu-tues  of  your  hundred-thousanders  ; 
They  never  hide  their  Ughts  beneath  a  busbel. 


Nay,  nay,  uncharitable  Sir !  for  often 
Doth  bounty,  Uke  a  streamlet,  flow  unseen, 
Freshening  and  giving  Ufe  along  its  course. 

TOWNSMAN. 

We  track  the  streamlet  by  the  brighter  green 


THE  alderman's  FrNERAL.  63 

And  livelier  growth  it  gives  ; — but  as  for  thia— 
This  was  a  pool  that  stagnated  and  slunk ; 
The  rains  of  heaven  engendered  nothing  in  it 
But  slime  and  foul  corruption. 

STRANGER. 

Yet  even  these 
Are  reservoirs  whence  public  charity 
Still  keeps  her  channels  full. 

TOWNSMAN. 

Now,  Sir,  you  touch 
Upon  the  point.     This  man  of  half  a  million 
Had  all  these  public  virtues  which  you  praise  : 
But  the  poor  man  rung  never  at  his  door, 
And  the  old  beggar,  at  the  public  gate, 
Who,  all  the  summer  long,  stands  hat  in  hand, 
He  knew  how  vain  it  was  to  lift  an  eye 
To  that  hard  face.     Yet  he  was  always  found 
Among  your  ten  and  twenty  pound  subscribers. 
Your  benefactors  in  the  newspapers. 
His  alms  were  money  put  to  interest 
In  the  other  world, — donations  to  keep  open 
A  running  charity  account  with  Eeaven, — 
Retaining  fees  against  the  Last  Assises, 
When,  for  the  trusted  talents,  strict  account 
Shall  be  required  from  all,  and  the  old   Arch* 

Lawyer 
Plead  his  own  cause  us  plaintiff. 

STRANGER 

I  must  needs 


64  THE  alderman's  funeral. 

Believe  you,  Sir: — these  are  your  witnesses, 
These  mourners  here,  who  from  their  carriages 
Gape  at  the  gaping  crowd.  A  good  March  wind 
Were  to  be  pray'd  for  now,  to  lend  their  eyes 
Some  decent  rheum  ;  the  very  hireling  mute 
Bears  not  a  face  more  blank  of  all  emotion 
Than  the  old  servant  of  the  family  ! 
How  can  this  man  have  lived,  that  thus  his  death 
Cost  not  the  soiling  one  white  handkerchief? 

TOWNSMAN. 

Who  should  lament  for  him,  Sir,  in  whose  hean 
Love  had  no  place,  nor  natural  charity  ? 
The  parlor  spaniel,  when  she  heard  his  step, 
Rose  slowly  from  the  hearth,  and  stole  aside 
With  creeping  pace  ;  she  never  raised  her  eyes 
To  woo  kind  words  from  him.  nor  laid  her  head 
Upraised  upon  his  knee,  with  fondling  whine. 
How  could  it  be  but  thus  ?  Arithmetic 
Was  the  sole  science  he  was  ever  taught ; 
The  multiplication-table  was  his  Creed, 
His  Paier-noster,  and  his  Decalogue. 
When  yet  he  was  a  boy,  and  should  have  breathed 
The  open  air  and  sunshine  of  the  fields, 
To  give  his  blood  its  natural  spring  and  play, 
He  in  a  close  and  dusky  counting-house 
Smoke-dried,  and  sear'd,  and  shrivell'd  up  hia 

heart. 
So  from  the  way  in  which  he  was  train'd  np 
His  feet  departed  not ;  he  toil'd  and  moil'd, 
Poor  muck-worm  I  through  his  threescore  yean 

and  ten  ; 


IHE   ALDEKMAN*S  FPNERAL.  65 

And  when  the  earth  shall  now  be  shovell'd  on 

him, 
If  that  which  served  him  for  a  soul  were  still 
Within  its  husk,  'twould  still  be  dirt  to  dirt. 

STRANGER. 

Vet  your  next  newspapers  will  blazon  him 
For  industry  and  honorable  wealth 
A  bright  example. 

j  TOWNSMAN. 

!  biven  half  a  million 

Gets  him  no  other  praise.     But  come  this  way 
Some  twelve  months  hence,  aud  you  will  find 

his  virtues 
Trimly  set  forth  in  lapidary  lines, 
Faith  with  her  torch  beside,  and  Httle  Cupids 
Dropping  upon  his  lifn  their  marble  tears 

Bristol,  1803, 


BALLADS 


METRIC  A.L    TALES. 


BALLADS  AND  METRICAL  TALES. 


THE  WELL  OF  ST.  KEYNE. 

"I know  not  whether  it  be  worth  the  reporting,  that 
there  is  in  Cornwall,  near  the  parish  of  St.  Neois,  a  Well, 
arched  over  with  the  robes  of  four  kinds  of  trees,  withy, 
oak,  elm,  and  ash,  dedicated  to  St.  Keyne.  The  reported 
virtue  of  the  water  is  this,  that  whether  husband  or  wife 
come  first,  to  drink  thereof,  they  get  the  ma&^ry  thereby." 

FUU.BB. 


A  Well  there  is  in  the  west  country, 
And  a  clearer  one  never  was  seen  ; 

There  is  not  a  wife  in  the  west  country 
But  has  heard  of  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne. 

An  oak  and  an  elm-tree  stand  beside, 
And  behind  doth  an  ash-tree  grow, 

And  a  willow  from  the  bank  above 
Droops  to  the  water  below. 


70  THE  WELL  OF  ST.   KEYNE. 

A  traveller  came  to  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne ; 

Joyfully  he  drew  nigh, 
For  from  cock-crow  he  had  been  travelling, 

And  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 

He  drank  of  the  water  so  cool  and  clear, 

For  thirsty  and  hot  was  he  ; 
And  he  sat  down  upon  the  bank 

Under  the  willow-tree. 

There  came  a  man  from  the  house  hard  by, 

At  the  Well  to  fill  his  pail  ; 
On  the  Well-side  he  rested  it, 

And  he  bade  the  stranger  hail. 

"Now  art  thou  a  bachelor,  Stranger? "  quoth  he 

"  For  an  if  thou  hast  a  wife, 
The  happiest  draught  thou  hast  drank  this  day 

That  ever  thou  didst  in  thy  life. 

"  Or  has  thy  good  woman,  if  one  thou  hast. 

Ever  here  in  Cornwall  been  ? 
For  an  if  she  have,  I'll  venture  my  life. 

She  has  drank  of  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne." 

•'I  have  left  a  good  woman  who  never  was  here," 

The  Stranger  he  made  reply  ; 
"  But  that  my  draught  should  be  the  better  for 
that, 

I  pray  you  answer  me  why." 

*'  St.  Keyne,"  quoth  the  Cornish-man,  "  many 
a  time 
Drank  of  this  crystal  Well ; 


THE   WELL   OF   ST.    KEYNE.  H 

^nd  before  the  Angel  summon'd  her, 
She  laid  on  the  water  a  spell. 

'  If  the  Husband  of  this  gifted  Well 

Shall  drink  before  his  Wife, 
A.  happy  man  thenceforth  is  he, 

For  he  shall  he  master  for  life. 

*  But  if  the  Wife  should  drink  of  it  first, — 
God  help  the  Husband  then  !" 

The  Stranger  stoop'd  to  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne, 
And  drank  of  the  water  agaiji. 

You  drank  of  the  Well,  I  warrant,  betimes  ?'* 
He  to  the  Cornish- man  said  : 
But  the  Cornish-man   smiled   as  the  Strangef 
spake, 
And  sheepishly  shook  his  head. 

*  I  hasten' d  as  soon  as  the  wedding  was  done. 
And  left  my  Wife  in  the  porch ; 

But  i'  faith  she  had  been  wiser  than  me, 
For  she  took  a  bottle  to  shurch." 

Westbury,  1798. 


BISHOP  BRUNO. 


"Brono,  the  Bishop  of  Herbipolitanum,  sailing  in  the 
river  of  Danubius,  with  Henry  the  Third,  then  Emperor, 
being  not  far  from  a  place  which  the  Germanos  call  Ben 
Strudd  or  the  devouring  giilf,  which  is  neere  unto  Grinon, 
a  castle  in  Austria,  a  spirit  was  heard  clamoring  aloud, 
'Ho,  ho,  Biehop  Bruno,  whither  art  thou  travelling 7  but 
dispose  of  thyselfe  how  thou  pleasest,  thou  shalt  be  my 
prey  and  spoil.'  At  the  hearing  of  these  words  they  were 
all  stupified,  and  the  Bishop  with  the  rest  crossed  and 
blessed  themselves.  The  issue  was,  that  within  a  short 
lime  after,  the  Bishop,  feasting  with  the  Emperor  in  a  ca». 
tie  belonging  to  the  Countesse  of  Esburch,  a  rafter  fell 
fromtheroof  of  thechamberwhereinthey  sate,  andslrooke 
him  dead  at  the  table."— Hbywood's  Hierarehie  of  th* 
Blessed  .Ingels. 


Bishop  Bruno  awoke  in  the  dead  midnight, 
And  he  heard  his  heart  beat  loud  with  affright  i 
He  dreamt  he  had  rung  at  the  palace  bell, 
And  the  sound  it  gave  was  his  passing  knell. 

Bishop  Bnino  smiled  at  his  fears  so  vain  ; 
He  turned  tc  sleep,  and  he  dreamt  again; 

72 


BISHOP  BRUNO. 


73 


He  rang  at  the  palace  gate  once  more. 

And  Death  was  the  Porter  that  open  d  the  door. 

He  started  up  at  the  fearful  dream, 

And  he  heard  at  his  window  the  screech-owl 

scream ; 
Bishop  Bruno  slept  no  more  that  night,— 
Oh  !  glad  was  he  when  he  saw  the  day-hght . 

Now  he  goes  forth  in  proud  array, 
For  he  with  the  Emperor  dines  to-day  ; 
There  was  not  a  Baron  in  Germany 
That  went  with  with  a  nobler  train  than  he. 

Before  and  behind  his  soldiers  ride  ; 
The  people  throng' d  to  see  their  pride ; 
They  bow'd  the  head,  and  the  knee  they  bent. 
But  nobody  blees'd  him  as  he  went. 

So  he  went  on  stately  and  proud, 
When  he  heard  a  voice  that  cried  aloud, 
"Ho !  ho  !  Bishop  Bruno  !  you  travel  with  glee 
But  I  would  have  you  know,  you  travel  to  me . 

Behind,  and  before,  and  on  either  side, 
He  look'd.  but  nobody  he  espied  ; 
And  the  Bishop  at  that  grew  cold  with  fear, 
For  he  heard  the  words  distinct  and  clear. 

And  when  he  rang  at  the  palace  bell, 
He  almost  exDscted  to  hear  his  knell ; 
And  when  the  Porter  turn'd  the  key. 
He  almost  expected  death  to  see. 


74  BISHOP    BRUWO. 

But  soon  the  Bishop  recover'd  his  glee, 
For  the  Emperor  welcomed  him  royally  , 
And  now  the  tables  were  spread,  and  there 
Were  choicest  wines  and  dainty  fare. 

And  now  the  Bishop  had  bless'd  the  meat, 
When  a  voice  was  heard  as  he  sat  in  his  seat,— 
' '  With  the  Emperor  now  you  are  dining  with  glee. 
But  know,  Bishop  Bruno,  you  sup  with  me!" 

The  Bishop  then  grew  pale  with  affright, 
And  suddenly  lost  his  appetite  ; 
All  the  wine  and  dainty  cheer 
Could  not  comfort  his  heart,  that  was  sick  with 
fear. 

But  by  little  and  little  recovered  he, 
For  the  wine  went  flownng  merrily. 
Till  at  length  he  forgot  nis  former  dread, 
And  his  cheeks  again  grew  rosy  red. 

When  he  sat  down  to  the  royal  fare. 
Bishop  Bruno  was  the  sadest  man  there ; 
But  when  the  masnuers  enter'd  the  hall, 
He  was  the  merriest  man  of  ail. 

Then  from  amid  the  masquers'  crowd 
There  went  a  voice  hollov/  and  loud, — 
"  You  have  past  the  day.  Bishop  Bruno,  in  giea  , 
But  you  must  pass  the  night  with  me  I" 

His  cheek  grows  pale,  and  his  eyeballs  glare, 
And  stiff  round  hia  tonsure  bristled  his  hair  • 


visHOP  Biaxo.  75 

With  that  there  came  one  from  the  masquert' 

band, 
And  took  the  Bishop  by  the  hand. 

The  bony  hand  suspended  his  breath  : 
His  maiTow  grew  cold  at  the  touch  of  Deatk 
On  saints  in  vain  he  attempted  to  call ; 
Bishop  Bruno  fell  dead  in  the  palace  halL 

Wettbury,  i79& 


THE  BATTLE    OF  BLENHEIM 


It  was  a  summer  evening  ; 

Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done^ 
And  he  before  his  cottage  door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sim ; 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelraine. 


She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round, 

Which  he  beside  the  rivulet, 
In  playing  there,  had  found  ; 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found. 

That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round 

3. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by  ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head. 

And  with  a  natural  sigh, 

7* 


THE   BATTLE   OF   BLENHEIM.  77 

'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 


"  I  find  them  in  the  garden, 
For  there's  many  here  about ; 

And  often,  when  I  go  to  plough, 
The  ploughshare  turns  them  out ; 

For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 

"  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory." 


"  Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 
Young  Peterkin  he  cries  ; 

And  Uttle  Wilhelmine  looks  up 
With  wonder- waiting  eyes  ; 

"  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war. 

And  what  they  fought  each  other  for 


*•  It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried, 
"  Who  put  the  French  to  rout; 

But  what  they  fought  each  other  for, 
I  could  not  well  make  out ; 

But  every  body  said,"  quoth  he, 

"  That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

7. 

"  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 
Yon  little,  stream  hard  by  ; 


78  THE    BATTLE    OF    BLENHEIM, 

They  burnt  his  dweUing  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly ; 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 


8. 

"  With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide, 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then, 

And  new-born  baby  died  ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victorv. 


•'  They  say  i,  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won  ; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun  ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

10. 

"  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Malbro*  won, 
And  our  good  Prince  Eugene." 

"  Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing  !  " 
Said  little  Wilhelmine. 

"  Nay — nay — my  little  girl,       uoth  he, 

*'  It  was  a  famous  victory. 


THB  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM,  7S 

li. 

'*  And  every  body  praised  the  Dr   a. 

Who  this  great  fight  did  win  ' 
"But  what  good  came  of  it  a'    ast f  " 

Quoth  httle  Peterkin. 
•*  Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,'   said  \m'. 
••  But  'twas  a  famous  victonr." 

WeMtbury,  ITn. 


A  TRUE  BALLA5> 

OP 

St.  AJrriDIUS,  THE  POPE  AlsT)  THE  MYIL. 


A  very  incorrect  copy  of  this  Ballad  was  printed  and 
fltld  by  J.  Bailey,  116  Chancery  Lane,  price  Cd  ,  with  a 
prim  from  a  juvenile  design  by  G.  Cruikshank.  I  think 
myself  fortunate  in  ha  ins  ziccidenially  obtained  this 
broadside,  which,  for  its  rarity,  will  one  day  be  deemed 
valuable  in  a  collection  of  the  works  of  a  truly  original 
and  inimitable  artist. 


It  is  Antidius  the  Bishop 

Who  now  at  even  tide, 

Taking  the  air  and  saying  a  prayer. 

Walks  by  the  river  side. 

The  Devil  had  business  that  evening, 

And  he  upon  earth  would  go  ; 

For  it  was  in  the  month  of  August, 

And  the  weather  was  close  below 


m 


ST.  ANTIDIUS,  THE  POPE,  AND  IHE  DEVILi    81 

He  had  his  books  to  settle  ; 
And  up  to  earth  he  hied, 
To  do  it  there  in  the  evening  air, 
All  by  the  river  side. 

His  imps  came  flying  around  him, 
Of  his  affairs  to  tell ; 
From  the  north,  and  the  south,  and  the  east,  and 
the  west, 
They  brought  him  the  news  that  he  liked  best, 
01  things  they  had  done. 
And  the  souls  they  had  won. 
And  how  they  sped  well 
In  the  service  of  Hell. 

There  came  a  devil  posting  in, 
Reiurn'd  from  his  employ  ; 
Seven  years  had  he  been  gone  from  Hell ; 
And  now  he  came  grinning  for  joy. 

Seven  years,"  quoth  he,  "  of  trouble  and  toU 

Have  I  labor'd  the  Pope  to  win ; 

And  I  to-day  have  caught  him  ; 

He  hath  done  a  deadly  sin  1" 

And  then  he  took  the  Devil's  book, 

And  wrote  the  deed  therein. 

Oh,  then  King  Beelzebub,  for  joy, 
H«  drew  his  mouth  so  wide 
You  might  have  seen  his  iron  teeth, 
Four  and  forty  from  side  to  side. 

He  wagg'd  his  ears,  he  twisted  his  tail, 
He  knew  not  for  joy  what  to  do; 
6 


82     ST.  ANTIDIUS,  THE  POPE,  AND  THE  DEVIX. 

In  his  hoofs  and  his  horns,  in  his  heels  and  bis 
corns, 
It  tickled  him  all  through. 

The  Bishop,  who  beheld  all  this, 

Straight  how  to  act  bethought  him  ; 

He  leap'd  upon  the  Devil's  back. 

And  by  the  horns  he  caught  him- 

And  he  said  a  Pater-nof-fcr 
As  fast  as  he  could  say, 
And  made  a  cross  on  the  Devil's  head, 
And  bade  him  to  Rome  away. 

Away,  away^  the  Devil  flew 
1  All  through  the  clear  moonlight ;' 

I  I  warrant  who  saw  them  on  their  way 

j  He  did  not  sleep  that  night. 

Without  bridle,  or  saddle,  or  whip,  or  spur, 
Away  they  go  like  the  wind  ; 
The  beads  of  the  Bishop  are  hanging  before, 
And  the  tail  of  the  Devil  behind. 

They  met  a  Witch,  and  she  hail'd  them, 
As  soon  as  she  came  within  call ; 
"Ave  Maria!"  the  Bishop  exclaim'd; 
It  frightened  her  broomstick,  and  she  got  a  fall. 

He  ran  against  a  shooting  star. 

So  fast  for  fear  did  he  sail, 

And  he  smged  the  beard  of  the  Bishop 

Against  a  comet's  tail ; 
4nd  he  pass'd  between  the  horns  of  the  mooa 


■T.  ANTIDIUS,  THE  POPE,  AND  THE  DEVIL.      83 

With  Antidkis  on  Ws  back  ; 
And  there  was  an  eclipse  that  night 
Which  was  not  in  the  almanac. 

The  Bishop,  just  as  they  set  out, 
To  tel!  his  beads  begun, 
And  he  was  by  tiie  bed  of  the  Pope 
Before  the  string  was  done. 

The  Pope  fell  down  upon  hiss  knees^ 
la  terror  and  confusion, 
And  he  confess' d  the  deadly  sin, 
And  he  had  absolution. 

And  all  the  Popes  in  bliss  that  be, 

Sung,  O  be  joyful !  then  ; 

And  all  the  Popes  in  bale  that  be, 

They  howl'd  for  envy  then  ; 

For  they  before  kept  jubilee, 

Expecting  his  good  company, 

Down  in  the  Devil's  den, 

But  what  was  this  the  Pope  had  done 
To  bind  his  soul  to  Hell  ? 
4b  ?  that  is  the  mystery  of  this  wonderful  history 
And  I  wish  that  I  could  tell  1 

But  would  you  know,  .here  you  must  go; 
You  can  easily  find  the  way  ; 
It  is  a  broad  and  a  well-known  road. 
That  is  travell'd  by  night  and  by  day. 


84     ST.  ANTIDiUS,  THE  POPE,  AND  THE  rBTIL. 

And  you  must  look  in  the  Devil's  bDok ; 
You  will  find  one  debt  that  was  never  paid  yet, 
If  you  search  the  leaves  throughout ; 
iLnd  that  is  the  mys'ery  of  this  wonderful  histcwf , 
And  the  way  to  &nd  il  oc?. 


[  ■  ! 


GONZALO  HERMIGUEZ. 


This  Jtory  is  related  at  length  by  Bernardo  de  Briu,  a 
his  Crorncn  de  Cister.,  \  vi.  c.  1,  where  he  has  preserved 
also,  part  of  a  poem  by  Gonzalo  Hermteuez.  The  versw 
are  said  to  be  the  oldest  in  the  Ponugueae  language ;  and 
Briio  says  there  were  more  of  them,  but  he  thought  it  suffi. 
cient  to  cite  these  for  his  purpose.  If  they  had  been  cor- 
rectly  printed,  it  might  have  been  difficult  to  make  out 
Iheir  meaning;  but  from  a  text  so  corrupted,  it  is  imDos- 
Bible. 


J 
Tn  arms  and  in  anger,  in  struggle  and  strife, 
Gonzalo  Hermiguez  won  his  wife ; 
He  slew  the  Moor  who  from  the  fray 
Was  rescuing  Fatima  that  day  ; 
In  vain  she  shriek'd  :  Gonzalo  press'd 
The  Moorish  prisoner  to  his  breast ! 
That  breast  in  iron  was  array'd  ; 
The  gauntiet  was  I  loody  th.at  grasp'd  the  Maid; 


G0N2AL0    HERMIGUEZ. 


Through  the  beaver-sight  his  eye 
Glared  fierce,  and  red,  and  wrathfully; 
And  while  he  bore  the  captive  away, 
His  heart  rejoiced,  and  he  blest  the  day. 

2. 

Under  the  lemon  walk's  odorous  shade 
Gonzalo  Hermiguez  wooed  the  Maid  ; 
The  ringlets  of  his  raven  hair 
Waved  upon  the  evening  air, 
And  gentle  thoughts,  that  raise  a  sigh, 

i  Soften'd  the  warrior's  dark-brown  eye, 

When  he  with  passion  and  sweet  song 

I  Wooed  her  to  forgive  the  wrong. 

Till  she  no  more  could  say  him  nay; 

I  And  the  Moorish  Maiden  blest  the  day 

When  Gonzalo  bore  her  a  captive  away. 


To  the  holy  Church,  with  pomp  and  pride, 

Gonzalo  Hermiguez  led  his  bride. 

In  the  sacred  font  that  happy  day 

Her  stain  of  sin  was  wash'd  away  ; 

There  did  the  Moorish  Maiden  claim 

Another  faith,  another  name; 

There,  as  a  Christian  convert,  plight 

Her  faith  unto  the  Christian  Knight; 

And  Oriana  blest  the  day 

When  Gonzalo  bore  her  a  captive  away. 


GONZALO    HERMIGUEZ.  87 

4. 

Of  Affonso  Henriques'  court  the  pride 

Were  Gonzalo  Hermiguez  and  his  bride ; 

In  battle  strongest  of  the  strong, 

In  peace  the  master  of  the  song, 

Gonzalo  of  all  was  first  in  fame, 

The  loveliest  she  and  the  happiest  dame. 

But  ready  for  her  heavenly  birth, 

She  was  not  left  to  fade  on  earth  ; 

In  that  dread  hour,  with  Heaven  in  view, 

The  comfort  of  her  faith  she  knew, 

And  blest  on  her  death-bed  the  day 

When  Gonzalo  bore  her  a  captive  away. 

5. 

Through  a  long  and  holy  life, 

Gonzalo  Hermiguez  mourn'd  his  wife. 

The  arms  wherewith  he  won  his  bride, 

Sword,  shield,  and  lance,  were  laid  aside. 

Thai  head  which  the  high-plumed  helm  had  worn 

Was  now  of  its  tresses  shaven  and  shorn, 

A  Monk,  of  Alcobaga  he 

Eminent  for  sanctity. 

Contented  in  his  humble  cell 

The  meekest  of  the  meek  to  dwell, 

His  business  was,  by  night  and  day. 

For  Oriana's  soul  to  pray. 

Never  day  did  he  let  pass 

But  scored  to  her  account  a  mass; 

Devoutly  for  the  dear  one  dead 


0»  GONZAT.O  HERMIGITBS. 

With  self-inflicted  stripes  he  bled  , 

This  was  Gonzalo's  sole  employ, 

This  was  Gonzalo's  only  joy; 

Till  love,  thus  purified,  became 

A  holy,  yea,  a  heavenly  flame ; 

And  now  in  heaven  doth  bless  the  day 

When  he  bore  the  Moorish  captive  awaf^ 

Bristol,  1601. 


QUEEN  ORRACA 

▲HO 

THE  FIVE  MARTYRS  OF  MOROCCO. 


This  legend  is  related  in  the  Chronicle  of  Affonso  D.,  and 
in  die  HiflU)ria  Serafica  of  Fr.  Manoel  da  Eaperanga. 


1. 

The  Friars  five  have  girt  their  loins. 

And  taken  staff  in  hand; 
And  never  shall  those  Friars  again 

Hear  mass  in  Christiaa  land. 

They  went  to  Queen  Orraca, 
To  thank  her  and  bless  her  then; 

And  Queen  Orraca  in  tears 
Knelt  U>  the  holy  men. 


so      QUEEN  ORRACA  AKA  TH£  FIVE  MARTYR3. 

''  Three  things,  Queen  Orraca, 

We  prophesy  to  you  : 
Hear  us,  in  the  name  of  God  ! 

For  time  will  prove  them  true. 


"  In  Morocco  we  must  martyr'd  be ; 

Christ  hath  vouchsafed  it  thus  : 
We  shall  shed  our  blood  for  Him 

Who  shed  his  blood  for  us. 

"  To  Coimbra  shall  our  bodies  be  brought, 

Such  being  the  will  divine  ; 
That  Christians  may  behold  and  feel 

Blessings  at  our  shrine. 

"  And  when  unto  that  place  of  rest 

Our  bodies  shall  draw  nigh, 
Who  sees  us  first,  the  King  or  ycu, 

That  one  that  night  must  die. 

'  Fare   nee  well,  Queen  Orraca  ! 

For  ihy  soul  a  mass  we  will  say, 
Every  day  as  long  as  we  live, 

And  on  thy  dying  day.'' 

The  Friars  they  blest  her,  one  by  one 
Where  ahe  knelt  on  her  knee ; 

And  they  departed  to  the  land 
Of  the  Moors  beyond  the  sea. 


QUEEN  ORRACA  AND  THE  FIVE  MARTYRS.      91 
2. 

•*  What  news,  O  King  Affonso, 

What  news  of  the  Friars  five  ? 
Have  they  preach'd  to  the  Miramamolin ; 

And  are  they  still  aUve  ?" 

*•  They  have  fought  the  fight,  O  Queen  ! 

They  have  run  the  race  ; 
In  robes  of  white  they  hold  the  palu 

Before  the  throne  ot  Grace. 

*'  All  naked  in  the  sun  and  air 

Their  mangled  bodies  lie  ; 
What  Christian  dared  to  bury  them, 

By  the  bloody  Moors  would  die."     ^« 

3. 

"  What  news,  O  King  Affonso, 
Of  the  Martyrs  five  what  news  ? 

Doth  the  bloody  Miramamolin 
Their  burial  still  refuse  ?" 

*'  That  on  a  dunghill  they  should  Irot, 

The  bloody  Moor  decreed  ; 
That  their  dishonor' d  bodies  should 

The  dogs  and  vultures  feed  ; — 

'  But  the  thunder  of  God  roUM  over  them, 
And  the  lightning  of  God  flash'd  round; 

Nor  thing  impure,  nor  man  impure, 
Could  approach  the  holy  ground. 


4. 

Every  altar  in  Coimbra 

Is  dress'd  for  the  festival  day; 
All  the  people  in  Coimbra 

Are  dight  in  their  richest  arra} 


92      QT7EEN  ORRACA  AND  THE  FIVE  MARTTRft.  j| 

!i 
"  A  thousand  miracles  appall' d  Ji 

The  cruel  Pagan's  mind  ;  jj 

Our  brother  Pedro  brings  them  here, 

In  Coimbra  to  be  shrined." 


!  Every  bell  in  Coimbra 

j  Doth  merrily,  merrily  ring;  \\ 

•  The  Clergy  and  the  Knights  await  ji 

I  To  go  forth  with  the  Queen  and  the  King  || 


"  Come  forth,  come  forth,  Queen  Orraca; 

We  make  the  procession  stay."  j 

**I  beseech  thee,  King  AfFonso,  : 

Go  you  alone  to-day.  ! 

*•  I  have  pain  in  my  head  this  morning 

I  am  ill  at  heart  also  ; 
Go  without  me.  King  Affonso, 

For  I  am  too  faint  to  go." 

"  The  relics  of  the  Martyrs  five  i 

All  maladies  can  cure  ; 
They  will  requite  the  charity 

You  show  d  them  once,  be  sure : 


QUEEN  ORRACA  ftND  THE  FIVE  MARTTfBS.      93 

"  Come  forth,  then  Queen  Orraca; 

^ou  make  the  procession  slay  : 
It  were  a  scandal  and  a  sin 

To  abide  at  home  to-day." 

Upon  her  palfrey  she  is  set, 

And  forward  then  they  go  ; 
And  over  the  long  bridge  they  pass. 

And  up  the  long  hill  wind  slow. 

'*  Prick  forward,  King  Affonso, 

And  do  not  wait  for  me ; 
To  meet  them  close  by  Coirabra, 

It  were  discourtesy  ; — 

"A  little  while  I  needs  must  wait, 
•    Till  this  sore  pain  be  gone  ; 
I  will  proceed  the  best  I  can  ;  ^^ 

But  do  you  and  your  Knights  prick  on. 

The  King  and  his  Knights  piick'd  up  the  hill 
Faster  than  before  ;  ,  j   .     u-n 

The  King  and  his  Knights  have  topp  d  the  hill, 
And  now  they  are  seen  no  more. 

As  the  King  and  his  Knights  went  down  the  hill, 

A  wild  boar  cross' d  the  way  ; 
♦  Follow  him  '.  follow  him  '."  cned  the  King ; 
«*  We  have  time  by  the  Queen's  delay." 

A-hunting  of  the  boar  astray 
Is  King  AJSbnso  gonfe : 


94       QUEE.V  ORRACA  AND  THE  FIVE  MARTYM. 

Slowly,  slowly,  but  straiglu  the  while, 
Queen  Orraca  is  ccming  on. 

And  winding  now  the  train  appears 

Between  the  olive-trees  : 
Queen  Orraca  alighted  then. 

And  fell  upon  her  knees. 

The  Friars  of  Alanquer  came  first. 

And  next  the  relics  past ; — 
Queen  Orraca  look'd  to  see 

The  King  and  his  Knights  come  laat 

She  heard  the  horses  tramp  behind ; 

At  that  she  tuni'd  her  face  : 
King  Alibnso  and  his  Knights  came   .j 
All  pantmg  from  the  chase. 

"  Have  pity  upon  my  poor  soul, 
Holy  Martyrs  five  1"  cried  she  : 

"  Holy  Mary,  Mother  of  God, 
Virgin,  pray  for  me  I" 

5. 

That  day  in  Coimbra 

Many  a  heart  was  gay  ; 
But  the  heaviest  heart  in  Coimbra 

Was  that  puor  Queen's  that  day 

The  festival  is  over, 

The  sun  hath  sunk  in  the  west ; 


U^ 


QUEEN  ORRA.CA  AND  THE  FIVE  MARTYRS.      93 

All  the  people  in  Coimbra 
Have  betaken  themselves  to  rest. 

Queen  Orraca's  Father  Confessor 

At  midnight  is  awake, 
KneeUng  at  the  Martyrs'  shrine. 

And  prajnng  for  her  sake. 

Just  at  the  mio  night  hour,  when  all 

Was  still  as  siill  could  be, 
Into  the  Church  of  Santa  Cru2 

Came  a  saintly  company. 

All  in  robes  of  russet  gray. 

Poorly  wore  they  dight ; 
Each  one  girdled  w^ith  a  cord, 

Like  a  Friar  Minorite. 

But  from  those  robes  of  russet  gray; 

There  flow'd  a  heavenly  light ; 
For  each  one  was  the  blessed  souJ 

Of  a  Friar  Minorite. 

Brighter  than  their  brethren, 

Among  the  beautiful  band, 
Five  were  there  who  each  did  boK 

A  palm -branch  in  his  hand. 

He  who  led  the  brethren, 

A  liviiii,'  ir-::in  was  he  ; 
And  yet  h;  shone  the  brightest 

Of  all  the  company. 


r" 


96      QTJEEN  ORRJLCA  AND  THE  FIVE  MAKTYES. 

Before  the  steps  of  the  altar, 

Each  one  bow'd  his  head  ; 
And  then  with  solemn  voice  they  sung 

The  Service  of  the  Dead. 

"  And  who  are  ye,  ye  blessed  Saints  ?" 

The  Father  Confessor  said  ; 
*'  And  for  what  happy  soul  sing  ye 

The  Service  of  the  Dead  ?" 

"  These  are  the  souls  of  our  brethren  in  blisa 

The  Martyrs  five  are  we  : 
And  this  is  our  father  Francisco, 

Among  us  bodily. 

"  We  are  come  hither  to  perform 

Our  promise  to  the  Queen  ; 
Go  thou  to  King  Affonso, 

And  say  what  thou  hast  seen." 

There  was  loud  knocking  at  the  door, 

As  the  heavenly  vision  fled  ; 
And  the  porter  called  to  the  Confessor, 

To  tell  him  the  Queen  was  dead. 

Bristol,  1803. 


THE  OLD  WOMAN  OF  BERKELEY,  , 

A  BALIJ^D,  1 

BOWING  HOW  AN  OLD  WOMAN   RODE   DOUBTS,  j 

AND    WHO   RODE   BEFORE   HER.  j 


This  Story  ig  related  by  Olaiw  Magnus,  and  in  the  Nu- 
remburg  Chronicle.  But  "William  of  Malmesbury  seems 
to  have  been  the  original  authority,  and  he  had  the  story 
from  an  eye  witness.  "  When  I  shall  have  related  it,"  he 
flays, "  the  creditof  the  narrative  will  not  be  shaken,  though 
the  minds  of  ihe  hearers  should  be  incredulous,  for  I  have 
heard  it  from  a  man  of  such  character  xvko  lamld  swear  he 
had  seen  it,  that  I  should  blush  to  disbelieve."— -S/wnp*'* 
William  of  Malmesbury,  p.  26. 


The  Raven  croak'd  as  she  sat  at  her  meal, 
And  the  old  woman  knew  what  he  said, 

And  she  grew  pale  at  the  Raven's  tale, 
And  sicken'd,  and  went  to  her  bed. 

*  Now  fetch  me  my  children,  and  letch  them 
with  speed." 

7  97 


98  THE   OLD  Vv'OMAN    OF   BERKELEY. 

The  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley  said  ; 
*  The  Monk  my  son,  and  my  daushter  the  Nun, 
Bid  them  hasten,  or  I  shall  be  dead." 

The  Monk  her  son,  and  her  daughter  the  Nua, 

Their  way  to  Berkeley  went ; 
And  they  have  brought,  with  pious  thought, 

The  holy  sacrament. 

The  Old  Woman  shriek'd  as  they  enter'd  hef 
door; 

And  she  cried  with  a  voice  of  despair. 
"  Now  take  away  the  sacrament, 

For  its  presence  I  cannot  bear!" 

Her  hp  it  trembled  with  agony  ; 

The  sweat  ran  down  her  brow ; 
'  I  have  tortures  in  store  for  evermore, 
But  spare  me,  my  children,  now!" 

\way  they  sent  the  sacrament ; 

The  fit  ir  left  her  weak; 
Shp  look'il  at  her  children  with  ghastly  eyw, 

And  faintly  struggled  to  speak. 

"All  kind  of  sin  I  have  rioted  in. 

And  the  judgment  now  must  be  , 
But  1  secured  my  children's  souls; 

Oh  !  pray,  my  children,  for  me  ! 

"  I  have  'nointed  myself  with  infants'  fat; 

The  fiends  have  been  my  slaves; 
From  sleeping  babes  I  have  suck'd  the  breath ; 


THE   OLD    WOMAN   OF    BERKELEIT.  99 

And,  breaking  by  charms  the  sleep  of  death, 
I  have  call'd  the  dead  from  their  graves. 

"  And  the  Devil  will  fetch  nje  now  in  fire, 

My  witchcrafts  to  atone  ; 
And  I,  who  have  troubled  the  dead  man's  grave 

Shall  never  have  rest  in  my  own. 

"  Bkss,  I  entreat,  my  winding  sheet, 

My  children,  I  beg  of  you; 
And  with  holy  water  sprinkle  my  shroud, 

And  sprinkle  my  coffin  too. 

"  And  let  me  be  chain'd  in  my  coffin  of  stone,  ij 

And  fasten  it  strong,  I  implore,  |j 

With  iron  bars,  and  with  three  chains  j 

Chain  it  to  the  church  floor.  i| 

*'  And  bless  the  chains,  and  sprinkle  them ;  ii 

And  let  fifty  Priests  stand  round,  ! 

(Vho  night  and  day  the  mass  may  say  I 

Where  I  he  on  the  ground.  j 

•'  And  see  that  fifty  Choristers  j 

Beside  the  bier  attend  me,  j 

And  day  and  night,  by  the  tapers'  Ught,  j 

With  holy  hymns  defend  me.  i 

I 

•'  Let  the  church  bells  all,  both  great  and  small,  { 

Be  toll'd  by  night  and  day,  Ij 
To  drive  from  thence  the  fiends  who  com© 

To  hear  uiy  boiy  away  i 


I 


J 


100  THE   OLD   WOMAN   07   BEKKILKT. 

"  And  ever  have  the  church  door  barr'd 

After  the  even-song ; 
And  I  beseech  you,  children  dear, 

Let  the  bars  and  bolts  be  strong. 

"And  let  this  be  three  days  and  nights, 

My  wretched  corpse  to  save  ; 
Till  the  fourth  morning  keep  me  safe, 

And  then  I  may  rest  in  my  grave." 

The  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley  laid  her  dowr 

And  her  eyes  grew  deadly  dim ; 
Short  came  her  breath,  and  the  struggle  of  deatli 

Did  loosen  every  hmb. 

They  bless' d  the  old  woman's  winding  sheet 

With  rites  and  prayers  due  ; 
With  holy  water  they  sprinkled  her  shroud. 

And  they  sprinkled  her  coffin  too. 

And  they  chain'd  her  in  her  coffin  of  stone, 

And  with  iron  barr'd  it  down. 
And  in  the  church  with  three  strong  chains 

Th&y  chain'd  it  to  the  ground. 

And  they  bless'd  the  chains,  and  sprinkled  them 

And  fifty  Priests  stood  round. 
By  night  and  day  the  mass  to  say  j 

Where  she  lay  on  the  ground.  j 

And  fifty  sacred  Choristers 
beside  the  bier  attend  her. 


THE   01  J)    VOMAN    OF   BERKELEY.  lul 

Who  day  and  night,  by  the  tapers'  light, 
Should  with  holy  hymns  defend  her. 

To  see  the  Priests  and  Choristers 

It  was  a  goodl}'  sight, 
Each  holdmg,  as  it  were  a  staff, 

A  taper  burning  bright. 

And  thj  church  bells  all,  both  great  and  small, 

Did  toil  so  loud  and  long ; 
And  they  have  barr  d  the  church  door  hard, 

After  the  even-song. 

And  the  first  night  the  tapers'  light 

Burnt  steadily  and  clear  ; 
But  they  without  a  hideous  rout 

Of  angry  fiends  could  hear; — 

A  hideous  roar  at  the  church  door, 

Like  a  long  thunder  peal : 
And  the  Priests  they  pray'd,  and  he  Chorisleri 
sung 

Louder,  in  fearful  zeal. 

Loud  toU'd  the  bell ;  the  priests  pray'd  well ; 

The  tapers  they  burnt  bright ; 
The  Monk  her  son,  and  her  daughter  the  Naiij 

They  told  their  beads  all  night. 

The  cock  he  crew ;  the  Fiends  they  flew 
From  thj  voice  -f  the  morning  awav  : 


I 

!  102  THE   OLD    WJMAN    OF    BERKELEY.  i 


Then  undisturb'd  the  Choristers  sing,  J! 

And  the  fifty  Priests  they  pray  ;  ij 

As  they  had  sung  and  pray'd  all  night, 

They  pray'd  and  sung  all  day. 


The  second  night  the  tapers'  light 
,,  Burnt  dismally  and  blue, 

ij  And  every  one  saw  his  neighbor's  facfs 

Ij  Like  a  dead  man's  face  to  view. 

And  yells  and  cries  without  arise, 
That  the  stoutest  heart  might  shock, 

And  a  deafening  roaring  Uke  a  cataract  pouring 
Over  a  mountain  rock. 

The  Monk  and  Nun  ihey  told  their  beads 

As  fast  as  they  could  tell, 
And  aye  as  louder  grew  the  noise, 

The  faster  went  the  bell. 

Louder  and  louder  the  Choristers  sung, 
As  they  trembled  more  and  more  , 

And  the  Priests  as  they  pray'd  to  Heaven  for 
aid, 
They  smote  their  breasts  full  sore. 

The  cock  he  crew  ;  the  Fiends  they  flew 
From  the  voice  of  the  morning  away  ; 

Then  undisturb'd  the  Choristers  sing, 
And  the  fifty  Priests  they  pray  :_ 

As  they  had  sung  and  pray'd  all  night, 
They  piay'd  and  sung  all  day. 


li .  Ij 


THE   OLD    WOMAN    OF    BERKELEY.  IM 

The  third  night  came,  and  the  tapers'  flame 

A  frightful  stench  did  make  ; 
\nd  they  burnt  aa  though  they  had  been  dipp'd 

In  the  burning  brimstone  lake.  j 

And  the  loud  commotion,  Uke  the  rushing  of 
ocean, 

Grew  momently  more  and  more  ; 
And  strokes  as  of  a  battering-ram 

Did  shake  the  strong  church  door. 

The  bellmen  they  for  very  fear, 

Could  toll  the  bell  no  longer ; 
And  still  as  louder  grew  the  strokes, 

Their  fear  it  grew  the  stronger. 

The  Monk  and  Nun  forgot  their  beads  ; 

They  fell  on  the  ground  in  dismay  ; 
There  was  not  a  single  Saint  in  heaven 

To  whom  they  did  not  pray. 

And  the  Choristers'  song,  which  late  was  so 
strong, 

Falter'd  with  consternation  ; 
For  the  church  did  rock  as  an  earthquake  shock 

Uplifted  its  foundation. 

And  a  sound  was  heard  like  the  trumpet's  blast 

That  shall  one  day  wake  the  dead ; 
The  strong  church  door  could  bear  no  more. 

And  the  bolts  and  the  bars  they  fled ; — 


104  THE   OI^D    WOMAN    OF    BERKELEF. 

And  the  tapers'  light  was  extinguish'd  quite; 

And  the  Choristers  faintly  sung  ; 
And  the  Priests,  dismay'd,  panted  and  pray'd, 
And  on  all  Saints  in  Heaven  for  aid 

They  call'd  with  trembling  tongue. 

And  in  Pie  came  with  eyes  of  flame, 

The  Devil  to  fetch  the  dead  ; 
And  all  the  church  with  his  presence  glow'd 

Like  a  fierv  furnace  red. 

He  lai  1  his  hand  on  the  iron  chains, 
And  like  flax  they  moulder'd  asunder. 

And  the  coffin  lid,  which  was  barr'd  so  firm, 
He  burst  with  his  voice  of  thunder. 

And  he  bade  the  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley  rise 
And  come  with  her  master  away  ; 

A  cold  sweat  started  on  that  cold  corpse, 
At  the  voice  she  was  forced  to  obey. 

She  rose  on  her  feet  in  her  winding  sheet ; 

Her  dead  flesh  quiver'd  with  fear; 
And  a  groan  like  that  which  the  Old  WomaB 
gave 

Never  did  mortal  hear. 

She  fdUnw'd  her  blaster  to  the  church  door  ; 

There  stood  a  Mack  horse  there  ; 
His  breath  was  red  like  furnace  smoke. 

His  eyes  hke  a  meteor's  glare. 


■    THE  OLD    WOMAN   OF   BERK«LET.  lOS 

The  Devil  he  flung  her  on  the  horse. 

And  he  le'ap'd  up  before, 
And  away  like  the  lightning's  speed  they  went 

And  she  was  seen  no  more 

They  saw  her  no  more ;  but  her  cries 
For  four  miles  round  they  could  hear  ; 

And  children  at  rest  at  their  mothers'  breMt 
Started,  and  scream' d  with  fear. 

Uerefitrd,  1798, 


THE  SURGEON'S  WARNING. 


!j  The  subject  of  this  parody  was  suggested  by  a  friend,  ic 

[  ^hom  also  I  am  indebted  for  some  of  the  stanzas. 

|!  Respecting  the  patent  cuffins  herein  mentioned,  after 

»  the  manner  of  Catholic  Poets,  who  c^mfess  the  actions 

j  they  attribute  to  their  Saints  and  Deity  to  be  but  fiction, 

{!  I  hereby  declare  that  it  is  by  no  means  my  design  to  de. 

{I  preciate  tliat  useful  invention;  and  all  persons  to  whom 

ij  this  Ballad  shall  come  are  requested  to  take  notice,  tha« 

t'  nothing  herein   asserted  concerning  the   aforesaid   cof. 

fins  is  true,  except  that  the  naker  and  t^tentee  lives  by 
St.  Martin's  Lane. 


The  Doctor  whisper' d  to  the  Nurse, 
And  the  Surgeon  knew  what  he  said ; 

And  he  grew  pale  at  the  doctor's  tale, 
And  trembled  in  his  sick  bed. 

**  Now  fetch  me  my  brethren,  and  fetch  them 
with  speed," 
The  Surgeon  affrighted  said ; 
"  The  Parson  and  the  Undertaker, 
Let  them  hasten,  or  I  shall  be  dead." 

106 


THE   surgeon's   WARNING. 


107 


The  Parson  and  the  Undertaker 

They  hastily  canve  complying, 
And  the  Surgeon's  'Prentices  ran  up  stairs 

When  they  heard  that  their  Master  was  dying. 

The  'Prentices  all  they  enter' d  the  room, 

By  one,  by  two,  by  three ;  _ 
With  a  sly  grin  came  Joseph  in, 

First  of  the  company. 

The  Surgeon  swore,  as  they  enter'd  his  door,- 
'Twas  fearful  his  oaths  to  hear,—  . 

"  Now  send  these  scoundrels  out  of  my  sigm, 
I  beseech  ye,  my  brethren  dear!" 

He  foam'd  at  the  mouth  with  the  rage  he  felt, 
And  he  wrinkled  his  black  eyebrow  : 

••  That  rascal  Joe  would  be  at  me,  I  kriow, 
But,  zounds,  let  him  spare  me  now! 

Then  out  they  sent  the  'Prentices  ; 

The  fit  it  left  him  weak  ; .  ,     ^      , 
He  look'd  at  his  brothers  with  ghastly  eyes, 

And  faintly  struggled  to  speak. 

"All  kinds  of  carcasses  I  have  cut  up, 

And  now  my  turn  will  be  ; 
But,  brothers,  I  took  care  of  you; 

So  pray  take  care  of  me. 

'« 1  have  made  candles  of  dead  men's  fat ; 
The  Sextons  have  been  my  slaves ; 


108  THE   SUR&EON's   WARNIWa. 

I  have  bottled  babes  unborn,  and  dried 
Hearts  and  livers  from  rifled  graves. 

*'  And  my  'Prentices  now  will  surely  come 

And  carve  me  bone  from  bone  ; 
And  I,  who  have  rifled  the  dead  man's  grave, 

Shall  never  have  rest  in  my  own. 

"  Bury  me  in  lead  when  I  am  dead, 

My  brethren,  I  entreat, 
And  sec  the  coffin  weigh' d,  I  beg, 

Lest  the  plumber  should  be  a  cheat. 

"And  let  it  be  solder'd  closely  down, 
Strong  as  strong  can  be,  I  implore; 

And  put  it  in  a  patent  coffin, 
That  I  may  rise  no  more. 

"  If  they  carry  me  off* in  the  patent  coffin, 

Their  labor  will  be  in  vain  ; 
Let  the  Undertaker  see  it  bought  of  the  maker 

Who  Uves  by  St.  Martin's  Lane. 

•  And  bury  me  in  my  brother's  church. 

For  that  will  safer  be  ; 
And,  I  implore,  lock  the  church  door, 
And  pray  lake  care  of  the  key. 

•*  And  all  night  long  let  three  stout  men 

The  vestry  watch  within  ; 
To  each  man  give  a  gallon  of  beei-, 

And  a  keg  of  Holland's  gin ; — 


THE   SURGEOK's   WARNING.  109 

'  *  Powder  and  ball,  and  blunderbuss, 

To  save  me  if  he  can, 
A.nd  eke  five  guineas  if  he  shoot 

A  Resurrection  Man. 

"  And  let  them  watch  me  for  three  weeks. 

My  wretched  corpse  to  save  ; 
For  then  I  think  that  I  may  stmk 

Enough  to  rest  in  my  grave." 

The  Surgeon  laid  him  down  in  his  bed  ; 

Ilis  eyes  grew  deadly  dim  ; 
Short  came  his  breath,  and  the  struggle  of  death 

Did  loosen  every  hmb. 

They  put  him  in  lead  when  he  was  dead, 

And,  wi;h  precaution  meet, 
First  they  the  leaden  coffin  weigh, 

Lest  the  plumber  should  be  a  cheat. 

They  had  it  solder'd  closely  down, 

And  examin'd  it  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
And  they  put  it  in  a  patent  coffin, 

That  he  might  rise  no  more. 

For  to  carry  him  off  in  a  patent  coffin. 

Would,  they  thought,  be  but  labor  in  vain; 

So  the  Undertaker  saw  it  bought  of  the  mak* 
Who  hves  by  St.  Martin's  Lane. 

In  his  brother's  church  they  buried  hinu 
That  safer  he  might  be ; 


JIO  THE   surgeon's    WARNING. 

They  lock'd  the  door,  and  would  not  tnut 
The  Sexton  with  the  key. 

And  three  men  in  the  vestry  watch, 

To  save  him  if  they  can ; 
And,  should  he  come  there,  to  shoot  they  swear 

A  Resurrection  Man. 

And  the  first  night,  by  lantern  light, 
Through  the  church-yard  as  they  went, 

A  guinea  of  gold  the  Sexton  show'd 
That  Mister  Joseph  sent. 

But  conscience  was  tough  ;   it  was  not  enough ; 

And  their  honesty  never  swerved  ; 
And  they  bade  him  go,  with  Mister  Joe, 
To  the  devil,  as  he  deserved. 

So  all  night  long,  by  the  vestry  fire. 

They  quaff 'd  their  gin  and  ale  ; 
And  they  did  drink,  as  you  may  think, 

And  told  full  many  a  tale. 

The  cock  he  crew.  Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 

Past  five  !  the  watchman  said  ; 
And  they  went  away,  for  while  it  was  day 
They  might  safely  leave  the  dead. 

The  second  night,  by  lantern  Hght, 

Through  the  church-yard  as  they  went, 

He  whisper'd  anew,  and  show'd  them  two, 
Tha^  Mister  Joseph  sent. 


I' 

i 


THE  SUR&EON's   warning.  l!l 

The  guineas  were  bright,  and   attracted  theii 
sight, 

They  look'd  so  heavy  and  new  , 
And  their  fingers  itch'd  as  they  were  bewitch'd, 

And  they  knew  not  what  to  do. 

But  they  waver'd  not  long,  for  conscience  was 
strong, 

And  they  thought  they  might  get  more  ; 
And  they  refused  tlie  gold,  but  not 

So  rudely  as  before. 

So  all  night  long,  by  the  vestry  fire, 

They  quaff 'd  their  gin  and  ale  ; 
And  they  did  drink,  as  you  may  think, 

And  told  full  many  a  tale. 

The  third  night,  as,  by  lantern  light, 
Through  the  church-yard  they  went. 

He  bade  them  see,  and  show'd  them  three, 
That  Mister  Joseph  sent. 

They  look'd  askance  with  greedy  glance ; 

The  guineas  they  shone  bright ; 
For  the  Sexton  on  the  yellow  gold 

Let  fall  his  lantern  light. 

And  he  look'd  sly  with  his  rog,iish  eye. 

And  gave  a  well-timed  wink  ; 
And  they  couH  not  stand  the  sound  in  his  hand, 

V  -  ho  made  the  guineas  chink. 


112  .  7E  surgeon's  -warninj?. 

And  conscience,  late  that  had  such  weight, 

All  in  a  moment  fails  ; 
For  well  they  knew  that  it  was  true 

A  dead  man  tells  no  tales. 

And  they  gave  all  their  powder  and  ball,  j 

And  took  the  gold  so  bright ;  I 

And  they  drank  their  beer,  and  made  good  chseT 
Till  now  it  was  midnight. 

I'hen,  though  the  key  of  the  church-door 

Was  left  with  the  Parson,  his  brother,. 
It  open'd  at  the  Sexton's  touch, — 

Because  lie  had  aiioth<  r,  ; 

And  in  they  go,  with  that  viilian  Joe,  i 

To  fetch  "the  body  by  ni_^lit ;  j! 

And  all  the  ehurch  luok'd  dismally  ! 

By  his  da:li  lanttrn  li-iit.  ;| 

They  bad  the  pick-are  to  the  stones,  ! 

And  ;hfy  ui'VO'i  tl^.L-m  so  >ii  -sunder;  I 

The}"  shoveird  away  the  b  !nl-pris='d  clay,  j 

And  came  to  tiie  cofnn  uuder.  • 

'I'liey  burst  tlie  patent  <'.offin  first,  jj 

Add  they  cut  ibrough  Uie  ie.id ;  jj 

A:i<.i  ti.cy  ]au,.h'd  aloud  when  they  saw  the  j| 

bhroud,  jl 

Because  they  had  q.-ot  at  the  dead.  il 

Ij 

And  they  allow'd  the  Sexton  the  sliroud,  jj 

And  they  put  the  coffin  back  ;  jj 


1 


THB  SUIIGEON's   WARNIWS.  113 

And  nose  and  knees  they  then  did  squeeze 
Tlie  Surgeon  in  a  sack. 

The  watchmen,  as  they  pass'd  along, 

Full  four  yards  off  could  smell, 
And  a  curse  bestow' d  upon  the  load 

So  disagreeable. 

So  they  carried  the  sack  a-pick-a-back, 
And  they  carved  him  bone  from  bon«. 

But  what  became  of  the  Surgeon's  sool 
Was  never  to  mortal  known. 

WeMtbury.  HSS- 


HENRY  THE  HERMIT. 


It  was  a  little  isia^d  where  he  dwelt, 
A  solitary  islet,  bleal;  and  bare, 
Short,  scanij'  h  rbage  spotting  with  dark  spota 
Its  gray  stoae  surface.     Never  mariner 
Approach'd  that  rude  and  uninviting  coast, 
Nor  ever  fisherman  liis  lo.iis'y  bark 
Anchor' d  beside  its  shore.     It  was  a  place 
Befitting  well  a  rigid  anchoret. 
Dead  to  the  hopes,  and  vanities,  and  joys. 
And  purposes  of  life  ,  and  he  had  dwelt 
Many  long  years  upon  that  lonely  isle  ; 
For  in  ripe  manhood  he  abandon' d  arms, 
Honors,  and  friends,  and  country,  and  the  world, 
And  had  grown  old  in  sohtude.     That  isle 
Some  sohtary  man,  in  other  times, 
Had  made  his  dwelling-place  ;  and  Henry  found 
The  little  chapel  which  his  toil  had  built 
Now  by  the  storms  unroofd,  his  bed  of  leaves 
Wind-scatter'd;  and  his  grave  o'ergrown  wiik 
grass, 

U4 


HENRY  THE  HERMIT.  115 

A^nd  thistles,  whose  white  seeds  there  wing'd 

in  vain, 
Wither'd  on  rocks,  or  in  the  waves  were  lost. 
60  he  repair'd  the  chapel's  ruin'd  roof, 
Clear'd  the  gray  Uchens  from  the  ahar-stone, 
And  underneath  a  rock  that  shelter' d  him 
From  the  sea-blast,  he  built  his  hermitage. 

The  persants  from  the  shore  would  bring  him 
food, 
And  beg  his  prayers ;  but  human  converse  else 
He  knew  not  in  that  utter  solitude  ; 
Nor  ever  visited  the  haunts  of  men, 
Save  when  sciiic  sinful  wretch  on  a  sick  bed 
Implored  his  blessing  and  his  aid  in  death. 
That  summons  he  delay'd  not  to  obey, 
Though  I  ho  night-tempest  or  autumnal  wind 
Madden' d  the  waves  ;  and  though  the  marineri 
Albeit  relying  on  his  saintly  load, 
Grew  pale  to  see  the  peril.     Thus  he  lived 
A  most  austere  and  self-denying  man, 
Till  abstinence,  and  age,  and  watchfulness, 
Had  worn  him  down,  and  it  was  pain  at  last 
To  rise  at  midnight  from  his  bed  of  leaves, 
And  bend  his  knees  in  prayer.  Yet  not  the  less, 
Though  with  reluctance  of  infirmity, 
Rose  he  at  midnight  from  his  bed  of  leaves, 
And  bent  his  knees  in  prayer ;  but  with  mora 

zeal, 
More  self-condemning  fervor,  raised  his  voice 
Imploring  pardon  for  the  natural  sin 
Of  that  reluctance,  till  the  atoning  prayer 


116  HEX«RY  THE  HERMIT.  i 

Had  satisfied  his  heart,  and  given  it  peace,  li 

And  the  repented  fault  became  a  joy.  ji 

One  night,  upon  the  shore  his  chapel-bell  ■! 

Was  heard;  the  air  was  calm,  and  its  far  sounds  \\ 

Over  the  water  came,  distinct  and  loud.  j 

AlEffm'd  at  that  unusual  hour,  to  hear  i 

Its  toll  irregular,  a  monk  arose,  I 

And  cross'd  to  the  island-chapel.     On  a  stone  j 
Henry  «vas  sitting  the>e,  dead,  cold,  and  stiff, 
The  bell-rope  in  his  hand,  and  at  his  feet 
The  lamp*  that  stream'd  a  long,  unsteady  light. 

Westbury,  1799. 
•  This  BUxy  ifl  related  in  the  EnglUi  MaitTrclogy,  IGOa 


ST   GUALBERTO. 

ADDRESSED   TO    ffEOROE   BURNFIT. 


IMIlfxjn  has  made  the  name  of  Vallumbroea  familiar  lo 
Eiigliah  readers;  few  of  whom,  unless  they  have  visits 
the^spot,  know  thai  it  is  the  chief  seat  of  a  religious  order 
foundod  by  St.  Gaulberto.  A  passage  in  one  of  Miss  Se- 
ward's early  letters  shows  how  well  Milton  had  observed 
the  peculiar  feature  of  its  autu/imal  scenery.  "I  have 
heard  my  father  say,  that  when  he  was  in  Italy  with  Lord 
Charles  Fitzroy,  they  travelled  throuirh  Vallumbrosa  in 
autumn,  after  the  leaves  had  begim  to  fall ;  and  that  their 
guide  was  obliged  to  try  what  was  land,  and  what  water, 
by  pushing  a  long  pole  bef  ire  him,  which  he  carried  in  his 
hand,  the  vale  being  so  very  irriguous,  and  the  leaves  so 
totally  covering  the  surface  of  the  stTtiama."— Poetical 
Wo'ks  /^Anne  Seward,  toith  Extracts  f rain  her  Literary 
C'orrespondefce,  vol.  L  p.  Ixxxvi. 


1. 

The  wQfk  is  done  ;  the  fabric  is  complete  ; 

Distinct  the  Traveller  sees  its  distant  tower, 
Yet,  ere  his  steps  attain  the  sacred  seat, 

117 


tI8  ST.  GUAtBERTO. 

Must  toil  for  many  a  league  and  many  an 
hour. 
Elate  the  Abbot  sees  the  pile,  and  knows, 
Stateliest  of  convents  now,  his  new  Moscerarose. 

2. 

Long  were  the  tale  that  told  Moscera's  pride, 
Its  columns'  cluster' d  strength   and   lofty 
state. 
How  many  a  saint  bedeck'd  its  sculptured  side; 

What  intersecting  arches  graced  its  gate  ; 
Its   towers  how   high,  hs  massy  walls  how 
strong. 
These  fairly  to  describe  were  sure  a  tedious  song. 

3. 

Yet  while  the  fane  rose  slowly  from  the  ground. 

But  Uttle  store  of  charity,  I  ween, 
The  passing  pilgrim  at  Moscera  found  ; 

And  often  there  the  mendicant  was  seen 
Hopeless  to  turn  him  from  the  convent  door, 
Because  this  costly  work  still  kept  the  brethren 
poor. 

4. 

Now  all  is  finish' d,  and  from  every  side 

They  flock  to  view  the  fabric,  young  and  old. 
Who  now  can  tell  Rodulfo's  secret  pride, 

When,  on  the  Sabbath-day,  his  eyes  behold 
The  multitudes  that  crowd  his  church's  floor, 
Some  sure  to  serve  their  God,  to  see  Moscera 
more  ? 


ST.  GUALBERTO.  119 

5. 
So  chanceJ  it  that  Gaulberto  pass  d  /hat  way, 

Since  sainted  for  a  life  of  saintly  deeds. 
He  paused,  the  new-rear'd  convent  to  survey, 
And,  o'er  the  structure  whilst  his  eye  pro- 
ceeds, 
Sorrowed,  as  one  whose  holier  feelings  deem 
That  ill  so  proud  a  pile  did  Lumble  monks  be- 


6. 
Him,  musing  as  he  stood,  Rodulfo  saw, 

And  forth  he  came  to  greet  the  holy  guest ; 
For  him  he  knew  as  one  who  held  the  law 

Of  Benedict,  and  each  severe  behest 
So  duly  kept  with  such  religious  care, 
Thai  Heaven  had  oft  vouchsafed  its  wonders  to 
his  prayer. 

7. 
*'  Good  brother,   welcome !"    thus    Rodulfo 
cries ; 
*'  In  sooth  it  glads  me  to  behold  you  here ; 
It  is  Gaulberto  !  and  mine  aged  eyes 

Did  not  deceive  me  :  yet  full  many  a  year 
Hath  shpp'd  away,  since  last  you  bade  farewell 
To  me  your  host  and  my  uncomfortable  cell. 

.  8. 
*♦  'Twas  but  a  sorry  welcome  then  you  found 
And  such  as  suited  ill  a  guest  so  dear. 


120  ST.   &UA.LBERTO. 

1'he  pile  was  ruinous   the  base  unsound; 

It  glads  me  more  to  bid  you  welcome  here, 
For  you  can  call  to  mind  our  former  state  ; 
Come,  brother,  pass  with  me  the  new  Moscera's 
gate. 

9, 

So  spake  the  cheerful  Abbot ;  but  no  smile 

Of  answering  joy  relax'd  Gualberto's  brow; 
He  raised  his  hand  rt^  pointed  to  the  pile — 
"  Moscera   better   pleased   me   then,   than 
now  ; 
A  palace  this,  befitting  kingly  pride ! 

Will  holiness,  my  friend,  in  palace  pomp 
abide?" 

10. 
"  Ay,"  cries  Rodulfo,  "  'tis  a  stately  place  ! 
And  pomp  becomes  the  House  of  Worship 
well. 
Nay,  scowl  not  round  with  so  severe  a  face  ! 
When  earthly  kings  in  seats  of  grandeur 
dwell, 
Where  art  exhausted  docks  the  sumptuous  hall, 
Jan  poor  and  sordid  huts  beseem  the  Lord  of 
all?" 

11. 
A.nd  ye  have  rear'd  these  stately  towers  on 

high 
To  serve   your  God?"  the   Monk  severe 

replied ; 


ST.  GDALBERTO.  121 

"  It  rose  from  zeal  and  earnest  piety, 
And  prompted  by  no  worldly  thoughts  be« 
side  ? 
Abbot,  to  him  who  prays  with  soul  sincere, 
However  poor  the  cell,  God  will  incHne  his  ear. 

12. 

*♦  Rodulfo  !  while  this  haughty  building  rose, 
Still  was  the  pilgrim  welcome  at  your  door  ? 
Did  charity  relieve  the  orphan's  woes  ? 

Clothed  ye  the  naked  ?  did  ye  feed  the  poor  ? 
He  who  with  alms  most  succors  the  distress'd, 
Proud  Abbot !    know  he  serves  his  heavenly 
Father  best. 

13. 

•*  Did  they  in  sumptuous  palaces  go  dwell 

Who  first  abandon'd  all  to  serve  the  Lord  ? 
Their  place  of  worship  was  the  desert  cell ; 
Wild  fruits  and  berries  spread  their  fnigal 
board ; 
And  if  a  brook,  hke  this,  ran  murmuring  by, 
They  bless'd  their  gracious  God,  and  '  thought 
it  luxury.'  " 

14. 

Then  anger  darken' d  in  Rodulfo' s  face , 
*'  Enough  of  preaching,"  sharply  he  replied* 

"Thou  art  grown  envious;  'tis  a  common 
ca.se ; 
Humility  is  made  the  cloak  of  pride. 


122  ST    GU ALBERTO. 

Proud  of  our  home's  magnificeiue  are  we. 
But  thou  art  far  more  proud  in  rags  and  beg 
gary." 

15. 
With  that  Gualberto  cried  in  fervent  tone, 

"  O  Father,  hear  me  !     If  this  costly  pile 
Was  for  thine  honor  rear'd,  and  thine  alone, 

Bless  it,  O  Father,  with  thy  fostering  smile  ! 
Still  may  it  stand,  and  never  evil  know. 
Long  as  beside  its  walls  the  endless  stream  shall 
flow. 

16. 
"  But,  Lord,  if  vain  and  worldly-minded  men 
Have  wasted  here  the  wealth  which  thou 
hast  lent, 
To  pamper  worldly  pride  ;  frown  on  it  then  ! 

Soon  be  thy  vengeance  manifestly  sent ! 
Let  yonder  brook,  that  gently  flows  beside, 
Now  from  its  base  sweep  down  the  unholy  house 
of  pride  I" 

■1. 
He  said, — and  io,  the  brcK)k  no  longer  flows! 
The  waters  pause,  and  now  they  swell  on 
high  : 
Erect  in  one  collected  heap  they  ros<3 ; 

The  affrighted  brethren  from  Moscera  fly, 
And  upon  all  the  Saints  in  Heaven  they  call, 
To  save  them  in  their  flight  from  that  impending 
fall. 


ST.  aUALBERT>>.  123 

18. 

Down  the  heap'd  waters  came,  and,  with  a 
sound 
Like  thunder,  ovei  thrown  the  fabric  falls ; 
Swept  far  and  wide,  its  fragments  strow  the 
ground, 
Prone  lie  its  columns  now,  its  high -arch' d 
walls ; 
Elarth  shakes  beneath  the  onward-rolling  tide, 
That  from  its  base  swept  down  the  unholy  house 
of  pride. 
*  *  *  * 

19. 
Were  old  Gualberto's  reasons  built  on  truth, 
Dear  George,  or  like  Moscera's  base  un 
sound  ? 
This  sure  I  know,  that  glad  am  I,  in  sooth, 

He  only  play'd  his  pranks  on  foreign  ground; 
For  had  he  turn'd  the  stream  on  England  too, 
.The  Vandal  monk  had  spoilt  full  many  a  goodly 
view. 

20. 

Then  Malmesbury's  arch  had  never  met  my 
sight. 
Nor  Battle's  vast  jyid  venerable  pile  ; 
I  had  not  traversed  then  with  such  delight 
The  hallowed  ruins  of  our  Alfred's  isle. 
Where  many  a  pilgrim's  curse  is  well  bestow'd 
On  those  who  rob  its  wails  to  mend  the  turn 
pike  road. 


124  ST.  GU ALBERTO. 

21. 

Wells  would  have  fallen,  dear  George,  our 
country's  pride  ; 
And  Canning's  stately  church  been  rear'd 
in  vain ; 
Nor  had  the  traveller  Ely's  tower  descried, 
Which  when  thou  seest  far  o'er  the  fenny 
plain. 
Dear  George,  I  counsel  thee  to  turn  that  way  ; 
Its  ancient  beauties  sure  will  well  reward  delay. 

22. 
And  we  should  never  then  have  heard,  I  think, 
At  evening  hour,  great  Tom's  tremendous 
knell. 
The  fountain  streams  that  nowin  Christ-church 
stink, 
Had  Niagara' d  o'er  the  quadrangle ; 
But,  as  'twas  beauty  that  deserved  the  flood, 
I  ween,  dear  George,  thy  own  old  Pompey  might 
have  stood. 

23. 

Then  had  not  Westminster,  the  house  of  God, 

Served  for  a  concert-room,  or  signal-post : 
Old  Thames,  obedient  to  the  father's  nod, 
Had    swept   down    Greenwich,    England'f 
noblest  boast ; 
And,  eager  to  destroy  the  unholy  walls. 
Fleet  Ditch  had  roU'd  up  hill  to  overwhelm  St. 
Paul's. 


ST.    GUALBERTO  12> 

24= 

George,  dost  thou  deem  the  legendary  deeds 

Of  saints  hke  this  but  rubbish,  a  mere  store 

Of  trash,  that  he  flings  time  away  who  reads  ? 

And  wouldst  thou  rather  bid  me  puzzle  o'er 

Matter  and  Mind  and  all  the  eternal  round. 

Plunged  headlon^g  down  the  dark  and  fathomlesa 

profound  ? 

25. 

Now  do  I  bless  the  man  who  undertook 

These  Monks  and  Martyrs  to  biographize; 
And  love  to  ponder  o'er  his  ponderous  book. 
The  mingle-mangle  mass  of  truth  and  lies, 
Where  waking  fancies  mix'd  with  dreams  ap- 
pear. 
And  blmd  and  honest  zeal,  and  holy  faith  sincere. 

26. 

All  is  not  truth ;  and  yet,  methinks,  'twere 
hard 
Of  wilful  fraud  such  fablers  to  accuse  ; 
What  if  a  Monk,  from  better  themes  debarr*a 

Should  for  an  edifying  story  choose 
How  some  great  Saint   the  Flesh  and  Fiend 
o'ercame ; 
^lis  taste  I  trow,  and  not  his  conscience,  wete  to 
blame 


126  ST.    GAULJERTO. 

27. 

No  fault  of  his,  if  what  he  thus  design'd 
Like  pious  novels  for  the  use  of  youth, 
Obtain'd  such  hold  upon  the  simple  mind 

That  was  received  at  length  for  gospel-truths 
A  fair  account !  andshouldst  thou  like  the  plea, 
Thank  thouour  valued  friend,  Dear  George,  who 
taught  it  me. 


.  All  is  not  false  which  se^ms  at  first  a  lie. 
Fernan  Antolinez,  a  Spanish  knight. 
Knelt  at  the  mass,  when,  lo!  the  troops  hard  by 

Before  the  expected  hour  began  the  fight. 
Though  courage,  duty,  honor,  summon'd  there, 
He  chose  to  forfeit  all,  not  leave  the  unfinish'd 
prayer. 

29. 

But  while  devoutly  thus  the  unarm' d  knight 
Waits  till  the  holy  service  should  be  o'er. 

Even  then  the  foremost  in  the  furious  fight 
Was  he  beheld  to  bathe  his  sword  in  gore; 

First  in  the  van  his  plumes  were  seen  to  play, 
And  all  to  liim  decreed  the  glory  of  the  day. 

30. 

The  truth  is  tcld,  and  men  at  once  exclaira'd, 
Heaven  had  his  Guardian  Angel  deign'd  to 
send ; 


ST.    GA.UI.BERTO.  127 

And  thus  ihe  tale  is  handed  down  to  fame. 

Now,  if  our  good  Sir  Fernan  had  a  friend 
Who  in  tins  critical  season  served  him  well, 
Dear  George,  the  tale  is  true,  and  yet  no  miracie- 

31. 

I  am  not  one  who  scan  with  scornful  eyes 
The  dreams  which  maiie  the  enthusicist'e 
best  delight ; 
Nor  thou  the  legendary  lore  despise, 

If  of  Gaulberto  yet  again  1  write, 
How  first  iinpell'd  he  sought  the  convent  cell; 
A  simple  tale  it  is,  but  one  that  pleased  me  well. 


32. 

Fortune  had  smiled  upon  Gaulberto's  birth, 

The  heir  of  Valdespesa'srich  domains  ; 

An  only  child,  he  grew  in  years  and  worth, 

And  well  repaid  a  father's  anxious  pains. 

In  many  a  lield  that  father  had  been  tried, 

Well  for  his  valor  known,  and  not  less  known 

for  pride. 

33. 

It  chanced  that  one  in  kindred  near  allied 
Was  slain  by  his  hereditary  foe  ; 

Much  by  hi;i  sorrow  moved,  and  more  by  pride, 
The  father  vow'd  that  blood  for  blood  should 
flow; 


128  ST.    GAULBERTO. 

And  from  his  youth  Gaulberto  had  been  taught 
That  with  unceasing  hate  should  just  revenge  be 
sought. 

34. 

Long  did  iney  wait ;  at  length  the  tidings  came 
That,  through  alone  and  unfrequented  way, 
Soon  would  Anselmo — such  the   murderer's 
name — 
Pass  on  his  journey  home,  an  easy  prey. 
"Go,"    said   the   father,  "meet  hun  in  the 
wood  !" 
And  young  Gaulberto  went,  and  laid  in  wait  for 
blood. 

35. 

When  now  the  youth  was  at  the  forest  shnde 
I  Arrived,  it  drew  toward  the  close  of  day  ; 

I  Anselmo  haply  might  be  long  delay'd, 

j  And  he,  already  wearied  with  his  way, 

Beneath  an  ancient  oak  his  hmbs  recUned, 
And  thoughts  of  near  revenge  alone  possese'd 
his  mmd. 

36. 

Slow  sunk  'he  glorious  sun  ;  a  roseate  light 
Spread  o  er  the*  forest  from  his  Hngering  ray»; 

The  glowing  clouds  upon  Gaulberto's  sight 
Soften' d  in  shade, — he  could  not  choose  but 
gaze  : 


ST.    GAULBERTO.  129 

And  now  a  placid  grayness  clad  the  heaven, 
Save  where  the  west  retain'd  the  last  green  lighf 
of  even. 

37. 
Cool  breathed  the  grateful  air,  and  fresher  now 
The  fragrance  of  the  autumnal  leaves  arose  ; 
The  passing  gale  scarce  moved  the  o'erhang- 
ing  bough. 
And  not  a  sound  disturb'd  the  deep  repose, 
Save  when  a  falling  leaf  came  fluttering  by, 
Save  the  near  brooklet's  stream  that  murmur'd 
quietly. 

38, 
Is  there  who  has  not  felt  the  deep  delight, 
The  hush  of  soul,  that  scenes  hke  these 
impart  ? 
The  heart  they  will  not  soften  is  not  right ; 

And  young  Gualberto  was  not  hard  of  heart. 
Yet  sure  he  thinks  revenge  becomes  him  well, 
When  from  a  neighboring  church  he  heard  the 
vesper-bell. 

39. 

The  Romanist  who  hears  that  vesper-bell, 
Howe'er  employ'd,  must  send  a  prayer  to 
Heaven. 
In  foreign  lands  I  Hked  the  custom  well ; 

For  with  the  calm  and  sober  thoughts  ofeven 
It  well   accords ;    and  wert  thou  journey  ng 
there, 


130  ST.    &AULBERTO. 

It  would  not  hurt  thee,  George,  to  join  that  ve» 
per-prayer. 

40. 

Gualberto  had  been  duly  taught  to  hold 
All  pious  customs  with  religious  care  ; 
ind — for  the  young  man's-  feehngs  were  not 
cold, — 
He  never  yet  had  miss'd  his  vesp>er-prayer. 
But  strange  misgivings  now  his  heart  invade  ; 
And  when  the  vesper-bell  had  ceased,  he  had 
not  pray'd. 

41. 

And  wherefore  was  it  that  he  had  not  pray'd  I 

The  sudden  doubt  arose  within  his  mind, 
And  many  a  former  precept  then  he  weigh'd. 
The  w  ords  of  Him  who  died  to  save  man- 
kind ; 
How  'twas  the  meek  who  should  inherit  Hea- 
ven, 
And  man  must  man  forgive,  if  he  would  be  for- 
i  given.  |j 

ll 
42. 

Troubled  at  heart,  almost  he  felt  a  hope, 
That  yet  some  chance  his  victim  might  delay. 

So  as  he  mused  adown  the  neighboring  slope, 
He  saw  a  lonely  traveller  on  his  way  ; 

And  now  he  knows   the   m^n  so  much  ab- 
horr'd. — 


ST.    OAULBERTO.  131 

His  holier  thoughts  are  gone,  he  bares  the  mur- 
derous sword. 

43, 

♦'  The  house  of  Valdespesa  gives  the  blow  I 

Go,  and  our  vengeance  to  our  kinsman  tell  !'* 
Despair  and  terror  seized  the  unarm' d  foe, 
And  prostrate  at  the  young  man's  knees  he 
fell, 
And  sfopp'd  his  hand,  and  cried,  "  Oh,  do  not 
take 
A  wretched  sinner'slifel  mercy  for  Jesus'  sake!" 

44 

At  that  most  blessed  name,  as  at  a  spell. 
Conscience,  the  power  within  him,  smote 
his  heart. 
His  hand,  for  murder  raised,  unharming  fell ; 
He   felt   cold   sweat-drops  on  his  forehead 
start ; 
A  moment  mute  in  holy  horror  stood, 
Then  cried,    "  Joy,  joy,  my  God!  I  have  not 
shed  his  blood!" 

45. 

He  raised  Anselmo  up,  and  bade  him  live, 
And   bless,   for  both  preserved,  that  holy 
name  ; 
And  pray'd  the  astonish' d  foeman  to  forgive 

The  bloody  purpose  led  by  which  he  came. 
Then  to  the  neighboring  church  he  s^ed  awav: 
His  overburden'd  soul  before  his  God    o  lay. 


132  ST.   OAULBBSTO.  ,, 

46.  jj 

He  ran  with  breathless  speed. — La  reach' d  th«  jj 

door, —  j 

With  rapid  throbs  his  feverish  pulses  swell;—  j! 

He  came  to  crave  for  pardon,  to  adore  jl 

For  grace  vouchsafed  ;  before  the  cross  he  fell,  I 

And  raised  his  swimming  eyes,  and  thought  jj 

that  there  i 

He  saw  the  imaged  Christ  smile  favoring  on  his 

prayer. 

47. 

A  blest  illusion  !  from  that  very  night 

The  Monk's  austerest  life  devout  he  led  ; 
And  still  he  felt  the  enthusiast's  deep  delight 

Seraphic  visions  floated  round  his  head ; 
The  joys  of  heaven  foretasted  fiU'd  his  soul ; 
And  still  the  good  man's  name  adorns  the 
ed  roll. 

Weslbury,  17». 


THE  ROSE. 


Between  the  C3rteeand  the  Chirche  of  Bethlehem,  w  the 
feldc  Floridus,  that  is  to  8eyne,lhe  felde  florsched.  For  ale 
moche  as  a  fayre  iMayden  was  blamed  whh  wrong  and 
sclaundred,  that  sche  hadd  don  fornicacioun,  for  whiche 
caus3  sche  whs  demed  to  the  dethe,andtobe  brent  in  ihat 
place,  to  the  whiche  she  was  ladd.  And  as  the  fyre  began 
to  brenne  about  hire,  she  made  her  preyeres  to  oure  Lord, 
that  als  wissely  as  sche  was  not  gylty  of  that  synne,  that  he 
wold  help  hire,  and  make  it  to  be  k  no  wen  to  alle  menof 
his  mercy fuUe  grace:  and  whanne  sche  had  thus  seyc 
Bche  entered  into  the  fuyer,  and  anon  was  the  fuyei 
quenched  andoute,and  the  brondes  that  weren  branny nge 
becomen  white  Roserew  fuUe  of  roses,  and  theise  werein 
the  first  Roseres  and  roses,  both  white  and  rede,  that  every 
ony  man  saiighe.  Ana  thus  was  this  Maiden  saved  by  the 
grace  of  Goi.^The  Voiage  and  Traivaile  of  Sir  John 
Mcaindeinlle. 


NTay,  Edith  !  spare  the  rose  ; — perhaps  it  lives, 
And  feels  the  noontide  sun,  and  drinks  refresh'd 
The  dew  s  of  night ;  let  not  thy  gentle  hand 
Tear  its  lile-strings  asunder,  and  destroy 

133 


134  THE   ROSE.  I 

The  sense  of  being  I — Why  that  infidel  smile  t  jj 

Come,  I  will  bribe  thee  to  be  merciful;  :! 

And  thou  shah  have  a  tale  of  other  days, —  'i 

For  I  am  skill'd  in  legendary  lore, —  ;} 
So  thou  wilt  let  it  live.     There  was  a  time 

Ere   this,    the    freshest,   sweetest    flower    that  | 

blooms,  \ 

Bedeck'd  the  bowers  of  earth.     Thou  hast  not  i 

heard  i 

How  first  by  miracle  its  fragrant  leaves  I 

Spread  to  the  sun  their  blushing  lovehness.  | 

There  dwelt  in  Bethlehem  a  Jewish  maid,  ; 

And  Zillah  was  her  name,  so  passing  fair 
That  all  Judea  spake  the  virgin's  praise. 
He  who  had  seen  her  eye's  dark  radiance 
How  it  reveal'd  her  soul,  and  what  a  soul 
Beam'd  in  the  mild  effulgence,  woe  to  him  ! 
For  nor  in  solitude,  for  not  in  crowds. 
Might  he  escape  remembrance,  nor  avoid 
Her  imaged  form,  which  followed  every  where, 
And  filled  the  heart,  and  fix'd  the  absent  eye. 
Alas  for  him  1  her  bosom  own'd  no  love 
Save  the  strong  ardor  of  religious  zeal, 
For  Zillah  on  her  God  had  centred  all  ; 

Her  spirit's  deep  affections.     So  for  her  | 

Her  tribes-men  sigh'd  in  vain,  yet  reverenced  j 

The  obdurate  virtue  that  Jestroy'd  their  hopes.  I 

One  man  there  was,  a  vain  and  wretched  man« 
Who  saw,  desired,  despaired,  and  hated  her. 
His  sensual  eye  had  gloated  on  her  cheek  j 


THE  ROSE.  135 

Sven  ti.l  the  flush  of  angry  modesty 

Gave  it  new  charms,  and  made  him  gloat  the 

more. 
She  loathed  the  man ;  for  Hamuel's  eye  was 

bold, 
And  the  strong  workings  of  brute  selfishness 
Had  moulded  his  broad  features  ;  and  she  fear'd 
The  bitterness  of  wounded  vanity 
That  with  a  fiendish  hue  would  overcast 
His  faint  and  lying  smile.     Nor  vain  her  fear; 
For  Harauel  vow'd  revenge,  and  laid  a  plot 
Against  her  virgin  fame.     He  spread  abroad 
Whispers  that  travel  fast,  and  ill  reports 
That  soon  obtain  belief;  how  Zillah's  eye, 
When  in  the  temple  heaven-ward  it  was  raised. 
Did  swim  with  rapturous  zeal,  but  there  were 

those 
Who  had  beheld  the  •nthusiasi's  melting  glance 
With  other  feelings  iill'd  ; — that  'twas  a  task 
Of  easy  sort  to  play  the  saint  by  day 
Before  the  public  eye,  but  that  all  eyes 
Were  closed  at   night ; — that  Zillah's  life  was 

foul. 
Yea,  forfeit  to  the  law. 

Shame — shame  to  man. 
That  he  should  trust  so  easily  the  tongue 
Which  stabs  another's  fame  !     The  ill  report 
Was  heard,  repeated,  and  believed,  and  soon,— 
For  Hamuel.  by  his  well-schemed  villany. 
Produced  such  semblances  of  guilt, — the  Maid 
Was  to  the  fire  condemn'd. 


136 


THE  ROSE. 


rp,  ,  Without  the  walls, 

1  here  way  a  barren  field  ;  a  place  abhorr'd 
For  It  was  there  where  wretched  criminals' 
Receiv  d  their  death ;  and  there  they  fix'd  the 

stake, 
And  piled  the  fuel  round,  which  should  consume 
1  he  injured  Maid,  abandon'd,  as  it  seem'd 
By  God  and  Man.  The  assembled  Bethlehemitea 
geheld  the  scene,  and  when  they  saw  the  Maid 
Bound  to  the  stake,  with  what  calm  holiness 
She  lifted  up  her  patient  looks  to  Heaven 
They  doubted  of  her  guilt.  With  other  thoughts 
Stood  Hamuel  near  the  pile  ;  him  savao-e  joy 
Led  thitherward,  but  now  within  his  heart 
Unwonted  feehngs  stirr'd,  and  the  first  pangs 
Of  wakening  guilt,  anticipant  of  Hell. 
The  eye  of  Zillah,  as  it  glanced  around, 
Fell  on  the  slanderer  once,  and  rested  there 
A  moment ;  like  a  dagger  did  it  pierce, 
And  struck  into  his  soul  a  cureless  wound. 
Conscience  !  thou  God  within  us  !  not  in  the  hour 
Of  triumph  dost  thou  spare  the  guilty  wretch  ; 
Not  in  the  hour  of  infamy  and  death 
Forsake   the  virtuous!     They  draw  near  the 

stake, 
They  bring  the  torch  !— hold,  hold  your  erring 

hands ! 
Yet  quench  the  rising  flames  !— they  rise  I  they 

spread ! 
They  reach  the  suffering  Maid !  oh  God  protect 
The  mnocent  one  ! 


nt  BOSS.  137 

They  rose,  they  spread,  they  raged  ;— 
I'he  breath  of  God  went  forth ;  the  ascending  fire 
Beneath  its  influence  bent,  and  all  its  flames 
In  one  long  lightning -flash  concentrating. 
Darted  and  blasted  Hamuel, — him  alone. 
Hark  ! — what  a  fearful  scream  the  multitude 
Pour  forth  ! — and  yet  more  miracles  !  the  stake 
Branches  and   buds,  and,  spreading  its  green 

leaves, 
Embowers  and  canopies  the  innocent  Maid, 
Who  there  stands  glorified ;  and  Roses,  then 
First  seen  on  earth  since  Paradise  was  lost, 
Profusely  blossom  round  her,  white  and  red, 
In  all  their  rich  variety  of  hues  ; 
And  fragrance  such  as  our  first  parents  breathed 
In  Eden  she  inhales,  vouchsafed  to  her 
A.  presage  sure  of  Paradise  regain' d> 

Wtstbury,  1798. 


THE  LOVER'S  ROCK. 


The  Maiden,  through  the  favoring  night 
From  Granada  took  her  flight ; 
She  bade  her  Father's  house  farewell, 
And  fled  away  with  Manuel. 

No  Moorish  maid  might  hope  to  vie 
With  Laila's  cheek  or  Laila's  eye  ; 
No  maiden  loved  with  purer  truth, 
Or  ever  loved  a  lovelier  youth. 

In  fear  they  fled,  across  the  plain, 
The  father's  wrath,  the  captive's  chain; 
In  hope  to  Seville  on  they  flee, 
To  peace,  and  love,  and  Uberty. 

Chiuma  they  have  left,  and  now, 
Beneath  a  precipice's  brow. 
Where  Guadalhorce  winds  its  way. 
There  in  the  shade  awhile  they  lay  ;— 

For  now  the  sun  was  near  its  height. 
And  she  was  weary  with  her  flight ; 

138 


THE  lover's  rock.  139 

She  laid  her  head  on  Manuel's  bieast, 
And  pleasant  was  the  maiden's  rest 

While  thus  the  lovely  Laila  slept, 
A  fearful  watch  young  Manuel  kept. 
Alas!  her  Father  and  his  train 
He  sees  conne  speeding  o'er  the  plain. 

The  Maiden  started  from  her  sleep ; 
They  sought  for  refuge  up  the  steep ; 
To  scale  the  precipice's  brow 
Their  only  hope  of  safety  now. 

But  them  the  angry  Father  sees; 
With  voice  and  arm  he  menaces ; 
And  now  the  Moors  approach  the  steep  ; 
Loud  are  his  curses,  loud  and  deep. 

Then  Manuel's  heart  grew  wild  with  woe 
He  loosen'd  stones  and  roll'd  below; 
He  loosen'd  crags  ;  for  Manuel  strove 
For  life,  and  liberty,  and  love. 

The  ascent  was  perilous  and  high ; 
The  Moors  they  durst  not  venture  nigl ; 
The  fugitives  stood  safely  there  ; 
They  stood  in  safety  and  despair. 

The  Moorish  chief  unmoved  could  see 
His  daughter  bend  her  suppliant  knee ; 
He  heard  his  child  for  pardon  plead, 
And  swore  the  offenders  both  should  bleed 


140  THE  lover's  rock. 

He  bade  the  archers  bend  the  bow, 
And  make  the  Christian  fall  below ; 
He  bade  the  archers  aim  the  dart, 
A-nd  pierce  the  Maid's  apostate  heart. 

The  archers  aim'd  their  arrows  there ; 
She  clasp' d  young  Manuel  in  despair; 
*'  Death,  Manuel,  shall  set  us  free  ! 
Then  leap  below,  and  die  with  me." 

He  clasp'd  her  close,  and  cried,  Farewell 
In  one  another's  arms  they  fell ; 
And  falling  o'er  the  rock's  steep  side, 
In  one  another's  arms  they  died. 

And  side  by  side  they  there  are  laid, 
The  Christian  youth  and  Moorish  maid; 
But  never  Cross  was  planted  there. 
Because  they  perish' d  for  despair. 

Yet  every  Moorish  maid  can  tell 
Where  Laila  lies,  who  loved  so  well ; 
And  every  youth,  who  passes  there, 
Says  for  Manuel's  soul  a  prayer. 

WeBtbury,  1798. 


GARCI  FERRANDE55. 


This  rx)ry,  which  later  hiBtorians  have  taken  soine  paini 
to  disprove,  may  be  found  in  the  Coronica  General  di 
E«pana. 


PART  I. 

1. 

In  an  evil  day  and  an  hour  of  woe 

Did  Garci  Ferrandez  wed ! 
He  wedded  the  Lady  Argentine, 

As  ancient  stories  tell ; 
He  loved  the  Lady  Argentine ; 

Alas  !  for  what  befell ! 
The  Lady  Argentine  hath  fled  ; 
In  an  evil  day  and  an  hour  of  woe 
She  hath  left  the  husband  who  loved  her  well, 
To  go  to  Count  Aymerique's  bed. 

141 


142  GABCI    FEERANDEZ. 


Garci  Ferrandez  was  brave  and  young, 
The  comeliest  of  the  land  ; 
There  was  never  a  knight  of  Leon  in  fight 
Who  could  meet  the  force  of  his  matchless  might ; 
There  was  never  a  foe  in  the  infidel  band 
Who  against  his  dreadful  sword  could  stand ; 
And  jet  Coun*  Garci's  strong  right  hand 
Was  shapuiv,  and  soft,  and  white; 
As  white  and  as  soft  as  a  Lidy's  hand 
Was  the  hand  of  the  beautiful  knight. 


i  i  In  an  evil  dav  and  an  hour  of  woe 

i!  To  Garci's  Hall  did  Count  Aymerique  go 

I  j  In  an  evil  hour  and  a  luckless  night 

li  From  Garci's  Hall  did  he  take  his  flight ; 

ji  And  bear  with  him  that  lady  brigfci 

i|  That  lady  false  his  bale  and  bane. 

|j  There  was  feasting  and  joy  in  Count  Aymi»- 

ji  ri<|ue's  bower, 

j!  When  he  with  triumph,  and  pomp,  and  prido 

I  i  Brought  home  the  adulteress  like  a  bride  : 

jl  His  daughter  only  sat  in  her  tower ; 

I  She  sat  in  her  lonely  tower  alone, 

j|  And  for  her  dead  mother  she  made  her  moan ; 

"  Methiuks, '  said  she,  "  my  father  for  me 
Might  have  brought  a  bridegroom  home. 
A  stepmother  he  brings  hither  instead  ; 
Conn*  Aymerique  will  not  his  daughter  should 
v^red. 


OARCI   FERRANDEZ.  143 

But  he  brings  home  a  leman  for  his  own  bed." 
So  thoughts  of  good  and  thoughts  of  ill 
Were  working  thus  in  Abba's  will; 
And  Argentine,  with  evil  intent, 
Ever  ro  work  her  wos  was  bent ; 
That  still  she  sat  in  her  tower  alone, 
And  in  that  melancholy  gloom, 
When  for  her  mother  she  made  her  moan, 
She  wish'd  her  father  too  in  the  tomb.  ij 

4.  .  II 

She  watches  the  pilgrims  and  poor  who  wait  i\ 

For  daily  food  at  her  father's  gate.  \\ 

I  would  some  Knight  were  there,"  though:  i  * 

she,  I 

"  Disguised  in  pilgrim-weeds  for  me  ? 
For  Aymerique's  blessing  I  would  not  stay 
Nor  he  nor  his  lernan  should  say  me  nay, 
But  I  with  him  would  wend  away. 

5. 

She  watches  her  handmaid  the  pittance  deal  • 

They  took  their  dole  and  went  away;  i 

But  yonder  is  one  who  lingers  still ;  'I 

As  thouijh  he  had  something  in  his  will,  Ji 

Some  secret  which  he  fain  would  say;  !! 

And  close  to  the  portal  she  sees  him  go ;  ; 

He  talks  wiiH  her  handmaid  in  accents  low; 

Oh  then  r>;;i;  thought  thai  time  went  slow, 

And  long  were  the  minutes  that  she  must  wait  1 

I'il  her  handmaic  came  from  the  castle- gate,  ij 

ij 


144  OARCI  FERRANBEZ. 

6. 

From  ttie  oastle-gate  her  handmaid  came, 

And  told  her  that  a  Knight  was  there, 
Who  sought  to  speak  with  Abba  the  fair, 
Count  Aymeriqiie's  beautiful  daughter  and  heir, 
She  bade  the  stranger  to  her  bower  ; 
His  stature  was  tail,  his  features  bold  ; 
A  goodlier  form  might  never  maid 
At  tilt  or  tourney  hope  to  see  ; 
And  though  in  pi'grim-weeds  arrayed. 
Yet  noble  in  his  weeds  was  he, 
And  did  his  arms  in  them  enfold 
As  they  were  robes  of  royahy. 


He  told  his  name  to  the  high-born  fair ; 
He  said  that  vengeance  led  him  there. 
"  Now  aid  me.  lady  dear,"  quoth  he, 
"  To  smite  the  adulteress  in  her  pride ; 
Your  wrongs  and  mine  avenged  shall  be, 

And  T  will  take  you  for  my  bride." 

He  pledged  the  word  of  a  true  Knight ; 

From  out  the  weeds  his  hand  he  drew; 

She  took  the  hand  that  Garci  gave 

And  then  she  knew  his  tale  was  true. 

For  she  saw  the  warrior's  hand  so  white. 

And  she  knew  the  fame  of  the  beautiful  Knight 


OARCT  FEBRANDEZ.  145 


PART  II. 


1. 

'Tis  the  hour  of  noon  ; 
The  bell  of  the  convent  hath  done. 
And  the  Sexts  are  begun  ; 
The  Count  and  his  len:ian  are  gone  to  tl>eir  meat 
They  look  to  their  pages,  and  lo  they  see 
Where  Abba,  a  stranger  so  long  before, 
The  ewer,  and  basin,  and  napkin  bore  ; 
She  came  and  knelt  on  her  bended  knee, 
And  first  to  her  father  minister' d  she  : 
Count  Aymerique  look'd  on  his  daughter  down } 
He  look'd  on  her  then  without  a  frown. 

2. 
And  next  to  the  Lady  Argentine 
Humbly  she  went  and  knelt ; 
The  Lady  Argentine  the  while 

A  haughty  wonder  felt ;  ( 

Her  face  put  on  an  evil  smile  ;  j 

"  I  little  thought  that  I  should  see 

The  Lady  Abba  kneel  to  me 
In  service  of  love  and  courtesy  ?  j 

Couni  Aymerique,"  the  leman  cried, 
"  Is  she  weary  of  her  solitude, 
Or  hath  she  quell' d  her  pride  ?" 
Abba  no  angry  word  repHed  ;  j 

She  only  raised  her  eyes,  and  cried, 
•'  Let  not  the  Lady  Argentine 
10 


146  BARCI  FERRA-VDEZ. 

Be  wroth  at  ministry  of  mine  !" 

She  look'd  at  Aymerique,  and  sigh'd 

"  My  father  will  not  frown.  I  ween, 

That  Abba  again  at  his  board  should  be  seen  !' 

'!!:?n' Aymerique  raised  her  from  her  knee. 

And  kiss'd  her  eyes,  and  bade  her  be 

The  daughter  she  was  wont  to  be. 


{I  The  wine  hath  warm' d  Count  Aymerique  ; 

Ij  That  mood  his  crafty  daughter  knew  ; 

Ij  She  came  and  kiss'd  her  father's  cheek, 

:;  And  stroked  his  beard  with  gentle  hand, 

j{  And  winning  eye  and  action  bland, 

ij  As  she  in  childhood  used  to  do. 

jj  **  A  boon  !   Count  Aymerique,"  quoth  she  ; 

II  If  I  have  found  favor  in  thy  sight, 

j;      -  Let  me  sleep  at  my  father's  feet  to-night. 

Il  Grant  this,"  quoth  she,  "  so  I  shall  see 

;!  Thft  you  will  let  your  Abba  be 

ij  The  daughter  she  was  wont  to  be." 

ij  With  asking  eye  did  Abba  speak  ; 

jj  Her  voice  was  soft  and  sweet ; 

jl  The  wine  had  warm'd  Count  Aymerique, 

1 1  And  when  the  ho\ir  of  rest  was  come, 

ij  She  lav  at  her  father's  feet. 

11    ■  ■               4. 

In  Aymerique's  arms  the  aduUeress  lay; 

il  Their  talk  was  of  the  distant  day, 

jj 


ak-RCI  FERRANDEZ.  147 

How  they  from  Garri  fled  away 

In  the  silent  hour  of  night ; 

And  then  amid  tht^ir  wanton  play 

They  mock'd  ihe  beau  iful  Kjiight; 

Far,  far  away  his  castle  lay, 

The  weary  road  of  many  a  day; 

'•  And  travel  long,",  they  said,  "  to  him, 

It  seem'd,  was  small  delight , 
And  ' -2  liehi-.o  v.is  iiafh  wi^h  'lood 
To  stain  his  hands  so  while." 
They  httle  thought  that  Garci  then 
Heard  every  scornful  word  ! 
They  little  thought  the  avenging  hand 
Was  on  the  avenc;ing  sword  ' 
Fearless,  unpenitent,  unblest, 
Wiihout  a  prayer  they  sunk  to  rest. 
The  adulterer  on  the  leman's  breas:. 


Then  Abba.  listening  still  in  tear. 
To  hear  the  breathing  long  and  slow, 
At  length  the  appointed  signal  gave, 
And  Garci  rose  and  struck  the  blow. 
One  blow  sufficed  for  Aymerique,— 
He  made  no  moan,  he  utter'd  no  groan; 
But  his  death-start  waken'd  Argentine, 
And  by  the  chamber  lamp  she  saw 
The  bloody  falchion  shine  I 
She  raised  for  help  her  in-drawn  breath  ; 
But  her  shriek  of  fear  was  her  shriek  for  death. 


['  6- 

\\  In  an  evil  day  and  an  hour  of  woe 

;|  Did  Garci  Ferrandez  wed  ! 

!;  One  wicked  wife  he  has  sent  to  her  ^rara; 

H  He  hath  taken  a  worse  to  ma  bed. 


KIN(;  RAMIRO. 


Green  gtjw  the  alder- trees,  and  close 
To  the  water-side  by  St.  Joam  da  Foi, 
From  the  castle  of  Gaya  the  Warden  sees 
The  water  and  the  alder-trees ; 
And  only  these  the  Warden  sees  ; 
No  danger  near  doth  Gaya  fear ; 
No  danger  nigh  doth  the  Warden  spy  ' 
He  sees  not  where  the  galleys  lie 
Under  the  alders  silently  ; 
For  the  galleys  with  green  are  cover'd  o*er, 
They  have  crept  by  night  along  the  shore ; 
And  they  lie  at  anchor,  now  it  is  morn. 
Awaiting  the  sound  of  Ramiro's  horn. 

2. 

In  traveller's  weeds  Ramiro  sate 
By  the  fountain  at  the  castle  -gate  ; 
149 


150  KIN&   RAMIRCI. 

But  under  the  weeds  was  his  breastf  late, 

And  the  sword  he  had  tried  in  so  many  fights, 

And  the  horn  whose  sound  would  ring  aaround. 

And  b-e  known  so  well  by  his  knights. 

3. 
From  the  gate  Aldonza's  damsel  came 
To  fill  her  pitcher  at  tne  spring, 
And  she  saw,  but  she  knew  not,  her  master  the 
King. 
In  the  Moorish  tongue  Ramiro  spake, 
And  begg'd  a  draught  tor  mercy's  sake, 
That  he  his  burning  thirst  might  slake. 
For,  worn  by  a  long  malady. 
Not  strength  enow,  he  said,  had  he 
To  lift  it  from  the  spring. 

4. 

She  gave  her  pitcher  to  the  King, 
And  from  his  mouth  he  dropp'd  a  ring 
Which  he  had  with  Aldonza  broken ; 
So  in  the  water  from  the  spring 
Queen  Aldonza  found  the  token. 
With  that  she  bade  her  damsel  bring 
Secretly  the  stranger  in. 

5. 

"  What  brings  thee  hither,  Ramiro  ?"  she  cried; 

"  The  love  of  you,"  the  King  replied. 

**  Nay  !  nay  !  it  is  not  so  !"  quoth  she  ; 

"  Ramiro,  say  not  this  to  me  1 

I  know  your  Moorish  concubine 


KINtJ   RAMIRO.  ISl 

Hath  now  the  love  which  once  was  mine. 

If  you  had  loved  me  as  you  say, 
you  would  never  have  stolen  Ortiga  away  ; 
If  you  had  never  loved  another, 
I  had  not  been  here  in  Gaya  to-day 
The  wife  of  Ortiga' s  brother  ! 
But  hide  thee  here, — a  step  I  hear, 
King  Alboazar  draweth  near." 

6. 

In  her  alcove  she  bade  him  hide  : 

"King  Alboazar.  my  lord,"  she  cried, 

"  Wha°  wouldst  thou  do,  if  at  this  hour 

King  Ramiro  were  in  thy  power?" 

*'  This  1  would  do,"  the  Moor  replied 

"  I  would  hew  him  hmb  from  lunb; 

As  he,  I  know,  would  deal  by  me, 

So  I  would  deal  by  him. 
*•  Alboazar  I"  Queen  Aldonza  said. 
*'  Lo  :  here  I  give  him  to  thy  will ; 
In  yon  alcove  thou  hast  thy  foe. 
Now  thy  vengeance  then  fulfil !" 

7. 

With  that  up  spake  the  Christian  kmg 

"  O  Alboazar,  deal  by  me 

As  I  would  surely  deal  with  thee. 

If  I  were  you,  and  you  were  me ! 

Like  a  friend  you  guested  me  many  a  day , 

Like  a  foe  1  stole  your  sister  away : 
The  sin  was  great,  and  I  felt  its  weight, 


l52  KIN&   KAMIRC.  I 

! 
All  joy  by  day  the  thought  oppress'dj 
And  all  night  long  it  troubled  my  rest ; 
'Till  I  could  not  bear  the  burden  of  care 
But  told  my  Confessor  in  despair. 
And  he,  my  sinful  sou!  to  save, 
This  penance  for  atonement  gave; 
That  I  before  you  should  appear, 
And  yield  myself  your  prisoner  here, 
If  my  repentance  was  sincere, 
'I  hat  I  might  by  a  public  death 
Breath  shamefully  out  my  latest  breath. 


•'King  Alboazar,  this  I  would  do,  j 

If  you  were  I,  and  I  were  you  ; 
That  no  one  should  say  you  were  meanly  fed 
I  would  give  you  a  roasted  capon  first 
I  And  a  good  ring  loaf  of  wheaten  bread, 

!  And  a  skinful  of  wine  to  quench  your  thirst, 

And  after  that  I  would  grant  you  the  thing 
I  Which  you  came  to  me  petitioning,  j 

Ij  Now  this,  O  King,  is  what  I  crave,  • 

:j  That  I  m}'  sinful  soul  may  save  :  I 

I  Let  me  be  led  to  your  bull-ring,  ; 

I  And  call  your  sons  and  daughters  all,  i 

j  And  assemble  the  people,  both  great  and  small;  I 

,j  And  let  me  be  set  upon  a  stone,  '; 

ij  That  by  all  the  multitude  I  may  be  knowa, 

'j  And  bid  me  then  this  horn  to  blow,  j 

And  I  will  blow  a  blast  so  strong, 
And  wind  the  horn  so  loud  and  long, 


KING  RAMIRO.  153 

That  the  breath  in  my  body  at  last  shall  be 

gone, 
And  I  shall  drop  dead  in  sight  of  the  throng. 
Thus  your  revenge,  O  King,  will  be  brave. 
Granting  the  boon  which  I  come  to  crave. 
And  the  people  a  holyday  sight  shall  have, 

And  I  my  precious  soul  shall  save ; 

For  this  is  the  penance  my  Confessor  gave. 

King  Alboazar,  this  I  would  do, 

If  you  were  I,  and  I  were  you." 

9. 

"  This  man  repents  his  sin,  be  sure  !** 
To  Queen  Aldonza  said  the  Moor ; 
*'  He  hath  stolen  my  sister  away  from  me ; 
I  have  taken  from  him  his  wife ; 
Shame  then  it  would  be,  when  he  comes  to  nie, 
And  I  his  true  repentance  see, 
If  I  for  vengeance  should  take  his  life.** 

10. 

"  O  Alboazar  !"  then  quoth  she, 
"  Weak  of  neart  as  weak  can  be! 
Full  of  revenge  and  wiles  ia  he. 
Look  at  those  eyes  beneath  that  brow ; 
I  know  Ramiro  better  than  thou! 
Kill  him,  for  thou  hast  him  now ; 
He  must  die,  be  sure,  or  thou. 
Hast  thou  not  heard  the  history 
How,  to  the  throne  that  he  might  rise, 
He  pluck'd  out  his  brother  Ordono's  eyes  f 


154  KING    RAMIRO. 

And  (lost  not  remember  his  prowess  in  fight. 

How  often  he  met  thee  and  put  ihee  to  flight, 

And  plunder'd  thy  country  for  many  a  day  ? 

And  how  many  Moors  he  has  slain  in  the  strife. 

And  how  many  more  carried  captives  away  ? 

How  he  came  to  show  friendship — and  thou  didst 

believe  him  ? 
How  he  ravish' d  thy  sister — and  wouldst  thou 
forgive  him  ? 
And  hast  thou  forgotten  that  I  am  his  wife, 
And  that  no\^  by  thy  side  I  lie  like  a  bride, 
The  worst  shame  that  can  ever  a  Christian  be- 
tide? 
And  cruel  it  were,  when  you  see  his  despair, 
If  vainly  you  thought  in  compassion  to  spare, 
And  refuse  hira  the  boon  he  comes  hither   to 
crave, 
For  no  other  way  his  poor  soul  can  he  save. 
Than  by  doing  the  penance  his  Confessor  gave.*' 

n. 

As  Queen  Aldonza  thus  replies. 

The  Moor  upon  her  fixed  his  eyes, 

And  he  said  in  his  heart,  Unhappy  is  he 

Who  putteth  his  trust  in  a  woman  ! 
Thou  art  King  Ramiro's  wedded  wife, 
And  thus  wouldst  thou  take  away  his  life  : 
What  cause  have  T  to  confide  in  thee  ! 
I  will  put  this  woman  away  from  ine. 
These  were  the  thoughts  that  pass'd  in  his  breast ; 
But  he  call'd  to  mind  Ramiro's  might; 


KING    RAMIRO.  15ft 

And  he  fear'd  to  meet  him  hereafter  in  fight 
And  he  granted  the  King's  requea:. 

12. 
So  he  gave  him  a  roasted  capon  fust, 
And  a  skinful  of  wine  to  quench  his  thirst; 
And  he  called  for  his  sons  and  daughters  all, 
And  assembled  the  people,  both  great  and  small; 

And  to  the  bull-ring  he  led  the  Ring  ; 
^       And  he  set  him  there  upon  a  stone. 
That  by  all  the  multitude  he  might  be  known; 
And  he  bade  him  blow  through  his  horn  a  blast, 
As  long  as  his  breath  and  his  life  should  last. 

13. 
Oh,  then  his  horn  Ramiro  wound : 
The  walls  rebound  the  peahng  sound, 
That  far  and  wide  rings  echoing  round; 
Louder  and  louder  Ramiro  blows, 
And  farther  the  blast  and  farther  goes; 
Till  it  reaches  the  galleys  where  they  lie  close 
Under  the  alders,  by  St.  Joam  da  Foz. 
It  roused  his  knights  from  their  repose, 
And  they  and  their  merry  men  arose. 
Away  to  Gaya  they  speed  them  straight ; 
Like  a  torrent  they  burst,  through  the  city  gate  ; 
And  they  rush  among  the  Moorish  throng, 
And  slaughter  their  infidel  foes. 

14. 
Then  his  good  sword  Ramiro  drew, 
Upon  the  Moorish  King  he  flew. 


156  B.IJIG   KAMIBO. 

And  he  gaA"e  him  one  blow,  for  there  needed  not 
two  ; 
They  killed  his  sons  and  his  daughters  too ; 
Every  Moorish  soul  they  slew ; 
Not  one  escaped  of  the  infidel  crew  ; 
Neither  old  nor  young,  nor  babe  nor  mother 
And  they  left  not  one  stone  upon  another. 

15. 

They  carried  the  wicked  Queen  aboard, 

And  they  took  counsel  what  to  do  to  her ; 

They  tied  a  millstone  round  her  neck, 

And  overboard  in  the  sea  they  threw  her. 

But  a  heavier  weight  than  that  millstone  lay 

On  Ramiro's  soul  at  his  dyuig  day. 

Bristol  180S. 


THE  INCHCAPF  ROCK. 


An  old  writer  mentidns  a  curious  tradition  which  may 
be  worth  quoting.  "  By  east  the  Isle  of  May,"  says  he 
"twelve  miles  from  all  land  in  the  German  seas,  lyefa 
great  hidden  rock,  called  Inchcape,  very  dangerous  for 
navigators,  because  it  is  overflowed  everie  tide.  It  is  re- 
ported, in  old  times,  upon  the  saide  rock  there  was  a  bell, 
fixed  upon  a  tree  or  timber,  which  rang  continually,  being 
moved  by  the  sea,  given  notice  to  the  saylers  of  the  danger. 
This  bell  or  clocke  was  put  there  and  maintained  by  the 
Abbott  of  Aberbrothok,  and  being  taken  down  by  a  sea 
pirate,  i  yeare  thereafter  he  perished  upon  the  same  rocke, 
with  ship  and  goodes,  in  the  righteous  Judgement  of  God." 
— Stoddakd's  Remarks  on  Scotland 


No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea, 
The  ship  was  still  as  she  could  be  ; 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion ; 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock, 
The  waves  flow'd  over  the  Inchcape  Rock ; 

157 


lyS  THE    INCHCAPE   ROCK. 

3o  little  they  /ose,  so  little  they  fell, 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  Bell. 

The  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok 
Had  placed  that  Bell  on  the  Inchrape  Rock ; 
On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung, 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  Rock  was  hid  by  the  surge's  swell,  , 

The  mariners  heard  the  warning  Bell ;  i 

And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  Rock, 
And  blest  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok. 

The  Sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay  ; 

All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day  ;  i 

The  sea-birds  scream'd  as  they  wheel'd  round,  i 

And  there  was  joyance  in  their  sound.  i 

The  buoy  of  the  Tnchcape  Bell  was  seen 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green  ; 
Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walk'd  his  deck, 
And  he  fixed  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring  , 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing ; 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess, 
But  the  Rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float : 
Quoth  he,  "  My  men,  put  out  the  boat, 
And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  Rock, 
And  I'll  plague  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok.*^ 


THE   INCHCAPE   ROCK.  159 

Tne  boat  is  lower'd,  the  boatmen  row, 

And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go ; 

Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat, 

And  he  cut  the  Bell  from  the  Inchcape  float. 

Down  sunk  the  Bell  with  a  gurgling  sound  ; 

The  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around  ; 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  The  next  who  comes  to  tht 

Rock 
Won't  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sail'd  away; 
He  scour'd  the  seas  for  many  a  day ; 
And  now,  grown  rich  with  plunder'd  store^ 
He  steers  his  course  for  Scotland's  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky, 
They  cannot  see  the  Sun  on  high ; 
The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day ; 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  Rover  takes  nis  stand ; 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  It  will  be  lighter  soon. 
For  there  is  the  diwn  of  the  rising  Moon." 

"Canst  hear,"  said  one,  "the  breakers  roar? 
For  methinks  we  should  be  near  the  shore." 
"  Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell, 
But  I  wish  I  could  hear  the  Inchcar^i  BelJ ' 


160  THE   INCH    .  /E   ROCK. 

Tl«ey  hear  no  sound  ;  the  swell  is  strong  , 
Though  the  wind  ha.h  faljen,  they  drift  along^ 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering  shock,* 
"  Oh  Christ !  it  is  the  Inchcape  Rock  ! 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  tore  his  hair ; 
He  curs'd  himself  in  his  despair  ; 
The  waves  rushed  in  on  every  side  J 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But,  even  in  his  dying  fear, 
One  dreadful  sound  could  the  Rover 
A  sound  as  if,  with  the  Inchcape  Bell, 
The  Devil  below  was  ringing  his  koetl 

Brutol,  IBQSk 


MARY,  THE  MAID  OF  fUE  INN. 


The  circumstances  related  in  the  folic  wing  Ballad  were 
^Id  me,  when  a  school-buy,  as  having  happened  in  the 
north  of  England  Either  Fumes  or  Kirkstall  Abbey  (I 
forget  which)  was  named  as  the  scene.  The  original  story, 
however,  is  in  Dr.  Plot's  History  of  Staffordshire.  • 

"Amongst  the  unusual  accidents,"  says  this  amusing 
author,  "that  have  attended  the  female  sex  in  the  coursa 
of  their  lives,  I  think  I  may  also  reckon  the  narrow  escape* 
they  have  made  from  death.  Whereof  I  met  with  one  men- 
tioned with  admiration  by  every  body  at  Leek,  that  hap- 
pened  not  far  off  at  the  Black  Meer  of  Morridge,  which, 
though  famous  for  nothing  for  which  it  is  commonly  re- 
puted  so,  (as  that  it  is  bottomless,  no  cattle  will  drink  of  it, 
or  birds  fly  over  or  settle  upon  it,  all  which  I  found  false,) 
yet  is  so,  for  the  signal  deliverance  of  a  poor  woman  enticed 
thither  in  a  dismal,  stormy  night,  by  a  bloody  ruffian,  who 
had  first  gotten  her  with  child,  and  intended,  in  this  remote 
inhospitable  place,  to  have  despatched  her  by  drowning. 
The  same  n.ght  (Providence  so  ordering  it)  there  were 
several  persons  of  inferior  rank  drinking  in  an  alehouse 
at  Leek,  whereof  one  having  been  out,  and  observing  the 
darkness  and  other  ill  circumstances  of  the  weather, 
coming  in  again,  said  to  the  rest  of  his  companions,  that  he 
were  a  stout  man  indeed  that  would  venture  uo  go  to  the 
Black  Meer  of  Morridge  in  such  a  night  as  that  to  which 
11  161 


}62  MAKk,  THE  MAID  OF  THE  INN. 

one  of  them  replying,  that,  for  a  crown,  or  some  such  sum, 
he  would  undertake  it,  the  reel,  joining  their  purses,  sala 
he  should  have  his  demand.  The  bargain  bemg  atruck, 
away  he  went  on  hi«  journey  with  a  slick  in  his  hand, 
which  he  was  to  leave  there  as  a  testimony  of  his  perform 
ance.  At  length,  coming  near  the  31eer,  he  heard  the 
lamentable  cries  of  this  distressed  woman,  begging  for 
mercy,  which  at  firs,  put  him  to  a  stand ;  but  being  a  man 
of  great  resolution  and  some  policy,  he  went  boldly  oUi 
however,  counterfeiting  the  presence  of  divers  other  per- 
sons, calling  Jack,  Dick,  and  Tom,  and  crying, '  Here  are 
the  rogues  we  look'd  for,'  ifcc;  which  being  heard  by  the 
murderer,  he  left  the  woman  and  fled ;  whom  the  other 
man  found  by  the  31eer  side  almost  stripped  of  her  clothes, 
and  brought  her  with  him  to  Leek  as  an  ample  testimony 
of  his  having  been  at  the  Meer,  and  of  God's  providence 
too."-P.  29L 

The  metre  is  3Ir.  Lewis's  invention ;  and  metre  is  one 
of  the  few  things  concerning  which  popularity  may  be 
admitted  as  a  proof  of  merit.  The  ballad  has  become  popu- 
lar owing  to  the  metre  and  thestory ;  and  ithasbeenmaie 
the  subject  of  a  fine  picture  by  air.  Barker, 


1, 

Who  is  yonder  poor  Maniac,  whose  wildly-fix'd 
eyes 

Seem  a  heart  overcharged  to  express  ? 
She  weeps  not,  yet  often  and  deeply  she  sighs  f 
She  never  complains,  but  her  silence  inipUes 

The  composure  of  settled  distress. 

2. 
No  pity  she  looks  for,  no  alms  doth  she  see* 
Nor  for  raiment  nor  food  doth  she  care : 


MAUT,  THE  MAID  OF  THE  TNW.  163 

Through  her  tatters  the  winds  of  the  winter  blow 

bleak 
On  that  wither'd  breast,  and  her  weather-woriF 

cheek 
Hath  the  hue  of  a  mortal  despair. 

3. 

Yet  cheerful  and  happy,  nor  distant  the  day, 

Poor  Mary  the  Maniac  hath  been ; 
The  Traveller  remembers  whojourney'd  this  way 
No  damsel  so  lovely,  no  damsel  so  gay, 
As  Mary,  the  Maid  of  the  Inn. 

4. 
Her  cheerful  address  fiU'd  the  guests  with  delight 

As  she  welcomed  them  in  with  a  smile ; 
Her  heart  was  a  stranger  to  childish  affright, 
And  Mary  would  walk  by  the  Abbey  at  night 

When  the  wind  whistled  down  the  dark  aisle. 


She  loved,  and  young  Richard  had  settled  the 
day. 

And  she  hoped  to  be  happy  for  life ; 
But  Richard  was  idle  and  worthless,  and  they 
Who  knew  him  would  pity  poor  Mary,  and  say 

That  she  was  too  good  for  his  wife. 

6.    • 
Twas  in  autumn,  and  stormy  ana  dark  was  the 
night. 
And  fast  were  the  windows  and  door  : 


I  164  MARY,  THE  MAID  OF  THE  INN- 

! 

I  Two  guests  sat  enjoying  the  fire  that  ^urntbright, 

1  And  smoking,  in  silence,  with  tranquil  delight, 

;  They  listen' d  to  hear  the  wind  roar. 

!  ''• 

I  •'  'Tis  pleasant,"  cried  one,  "  seated  by  the  fire 

side, 
To  hear  the  wind  whistle  without." 
"What  a  night  for  the  Abbey!"  his  comraae 

replied ; 
'*  Methinks  a  man's  courage  would  now  be  well 
tried 
Who  should  wander  the  ruins  about. 

8. 
I  **  I  myself,  like  a  school-boy,  should  tremble  to 

hear 
The  hoarse  ivy  shake  over  my  head ; 
And  could  fancy  I  saw.  half  persuaded  by  fear, 
Some  ugly  old  Abbot's  grim  spirit  appear; 
For  this  wind  might  awaken  the  dead  !" 

9. 

"  I'll  wager  a  dinner,"  the  other  one  cried, 
"  That  Mary  would  venture  there  now." 
•'  Then  wager  and  lose  1  with  a  sneer  he  replied , 
*'  I'll  warrant  she'd  fancy  a  ghost  by  her  side, 
And  faint  if  she  saw  a  white  cow." 

I  10. 

I  "  Will  Mary  this  charge  on  her  courage  allow  ?" 

I  His  companion  exclaim' d,  with  a  smile ; 


MARY,  THE  MAID  OF  THE  INN.  165 

**  I  shall  win, — for  I  know  she  will  venture  there 

now, 
And  earn  a  new  bonnet  by  bringing  a  bough 
From  the  elder  that  grows  in  the  aisle." 

11. 

With  fearless  good-humor  d.d  Mary  comply, 

And  her  way  to  the  Abbey  she  bent; 
The  nigtit  was  dark,  and  the  wind  was  high. 
And  as  hollowly  howling  it  swept  through  the 
sky, 
She  shiver'd  with  cold  as  she  went. 

12. 
(J'er  the  path  so  well  known  still  proceeded  the 
Maid 
Where  the  Abbey  rose  dim  on  the  sight ; 
Through  the  gateway  she  enter'd  :  she  felt  not 

afraid, 
yet  the  ruins  were  lonely  and  wild,  and  their 
shade 
Seem'd  to  deepen  the  gloom  of  the  night. 

13. 

All  around  her  was  silent,  save  when  the  rude 
blast 
Elowl'd  dismally  round  the  old  pile ; 
Over  weed-cover'd    fragments    she    fearlessly 

pass'd, 
And  arrived  at  the  innermost  ruin  at  last. 
Where  the  elder-tree  gr^w  in  the  aisle. 


I. 

i  166  MARY,  THE  MAID  OF  THE  IXN. 

i  14. 

Well  pleased  did  she  reach  it,  and  quickly  drew 

near. 

And  hastily  gather'd  the  bough  ; 

When  the  sound  of  a  voice  seem'd  to  rise  on  her  i ! 

ear,  ji 

She  paused,  and  she  hsten'd  intently,  in  fear,  !| 

And  her  heart  panted  painfully  now.  ii 

15.  || 

The  wind  blew  ;  the  hoarse  ivy  shook  over  her  jj 

head ;  |1 

She  listen'd — nought  else  could  she  hear;  {■ 

The  wind  fell ;  her  heart  sunk  in  her  bosom  with 

dread, 

For  she  heard  in  the  ruins  distinctly  the  tread  .j 

Of  footsteps  approaching  her  near.  ii 

16. 
Behind  a  wide  column,  half  breathless  with  tear, 

She  crept  to  conceal  herself  there  : 
That  instant  the  moon  o'er  a  dark  cloud  shone 

clear, 
And  she  saw  in  the  moonlight  two  ruffians  ap» 

pear,  ; 

And  between  them  a  corpse  did  they  bear.  ij 

ii 
17.  ji 

Then  Mary  could  feel  her  heart-blood  curdle  jj 

cold  ;  1 1 

Again  the  rough  wind  hurried  by ;  ; 


J 


MART,  THE  MAID  OF  THE  INN.  367 

It  blew  off  the  hat  of  the  one,  and,  behold, 
Even  close  to  the  feet  of  poor  Mary  it  roU'd ; 
She  felt,  and  expected  to  die. 

18. 

••  Curse  the  hat !"  he  exclaims.     "  Nay,  come 
on  till  we  hide 

The  dead  body,"  his  comrade  replies. 
She  beholds  them  in  safety  pass  on  by  her  side ; 
She  seizes  the  hat, — fear  her  courage  suppUed,— 

And  fast  through  the  Abbey  she  flies. 

19. 

She  ran  with  wild  soeed ;  she  rush'd  in  at  the 
door; 
She  gaz'd  in  her  terror  around  ; 
Then  her  limbs  could  support  their  faint  burden 

no  more,  ■ 
And  exhausted  and  breathless  she  sank  on  tho 
floor. 
Unable  to  utter  a  souna. 

20. 
Ere  yet  her  pale  lips  could  the  story  impart, 

For  a  moment  the  hat  met  her  view  ; — 
Her  eyes  from  that  object  convulsively  start. 
For — what  a  cold  horror  then  thrilled  through 
her  heart 
When  the  name  of  her  Richard  she  knew  ! 


168  MA.RY,  THE  MAID  OF  THE  1KB. 

Where  the  old  Abbey  stands,  on  the  common 
hard  by, 
His  gibbet  is  now  to  be  seen ; 
His  irons  you  still  from  the  road  may  espy ; 
The  traveller  beholds  them,  and  thinks  with  ■ 
sigh, 
Of  poor  Mary,  the  Maid  of  the  Ina, 

Bristol,  1?9§, 


DONICA. 


•In  Finland  there  is  a  Castle  which  i»  called  the  New 
Rock,  moated  about  with  a  river  of  unsounded  depth,  the 
water  black,  and  the  fiflh  therein  very  distasteful  to  the 
palate.  In  this  is  spectres  often  seen,  which  foreshow  either 
the  death  of  the  Governor,  or  of  some  prime  officer  belong- 
ing to  the  place ;  and  most  commonly  it  appeareth  in  the 
shape  of  a  harper,  sweetly  singing  and  dallying  and  play- 
ing under  the  water." 

"  It  is  reported  of  one  Donica,  that  after  she  was  dead, 
the  Devil  walked  in  her  body  for  the  space  of  two  years,  so 
that  none  suspected  but  she  was  still  alive;  for  she  did 
both  speak  and  eat,  though  very  sparingly ;  only  she  had 
a  deep  paleness  on  her  countenance,  which  was  the  only 
sign  of  death.  At  length,  a  Magician  coming  by  where  she 
was  then  in  the  company  of  many  other  virgins,  as  soon  as 
he  beheld  her, he  said, 'Fair  Maids,  why  keep  you  com- 
pany with  this  dead  Vii^in,  whom  you  suppose  to  be  alive  V 
when,  taking  away  the  magic  charm  which  was  tied  un- 
der her  arm,  the  oody  fell  down  lifeless  and  without  mo- 
tion." 

The  following  Ballad  is  founded  on  these  stories.  They 
are  to  be  found  m  the  notes  to  the  Hierarchies  of  the  Bles- 
Mid  Angels ;  a  Poem  by  Thomas  Iley  wood,  printed  in  folio 
Adam  Islip,  1635. 

169 


170  DOWICA. 

High  on  a  rock  whose  castled  shade 

Darken'd  the  lake  below,  ■ 
In  ancient  strength  majestic  stood 

The  towers  of  Arlinkow. 

The  fisher  in  the  lake  below 

Durst  never  cast  his  net, 
Nor  ever  swallow  in  its  waves 

Her  passing  wing  would  wet. 

The  cattle  from  its  ominous  banks 

In  wild  alarm  would  run, 
Though  parch' d  with  thirst,  and  faint  beneatli 

The  summer's  scorching  sun  ; — 

For  sometimes,  when  no  passing  breeze 

The  long,  lank  sedges  waved, 
All  white  with  foam,  and  heaving  high, 

Its  deafning  billows  raved ; — 

And  when  the  tempest  from  its  base 

The  rooted  pine  would  shake. 
The  powerless  storm  unrufHing  swept 

Across  the  calm  dead  lake ; — 

And  ever,  then,  when  death  drew  near 

The  house  of  Arlinkow, 
Its  dark,  unfathom'd  waters  sent 

Strange  music  from  below. 

The  Lord  of  Arlinkow  was  old ; 
One  only  child  had  he ; 


DONICA.  ITl 

Donica  was  the  Maiden's  name, 
As  fair  as  fair  might  be. 

A  bloom  as  bright  as  opening  moin 

Suffused  her  clear,  white  cheek  ; 
The  music  of  her  voice  was  mild ; 

Her  full,  dark  eyes  were  meek. 

Far  was  her  beauty  known,  for  none 

So  fair  could  Finland  boast ; 
Her  parents  loved  the  Maiden  much ; 

Young  Eberhard  loved  her  most. 

Together  did  they  hope  to  tread 

The  pleasant  path  of  life  ; 
For  now  the  day  drew  near  to  make 

Donica  Eberhard's  wife. 

The  eve  was  fair,  and  mild  the  air ; 

Along  the  lake  they  stray  ; 
The  eastern  hill  reflected  bright 

The  tints  of  fading  day. 

And  brightly  o'er  the  water  stream'd 

The  liquid  radiance  wide  ; 
Donica's  Uttle  dog  ran  on, 

And  gamboll'd  at  her  side. 

Youth,  health,  and  love  bloom'd  on  her  cheek 

Her  full,  dark  eyes  express, 
[n  many  a  glance,  to  Eberhard 

Her  soul's  meek  tenderness. 


172  BONICA.. 

Nor  sound  was  heard,  nor  passing  gale 

Sigh'd  through  the  long,  lank  sedge; 
The  air  was  hush'd  ;  no  little  wave 

Dimpled  the  water's  edge  ; — 

When  suddenly  the  .ase  sent  forth 

Its  music  from  beneath, 
And  slowly  o'er  the  waters  sail'd 

The  solemn  sounds  of  death. 

As  those  deep  sounds  of  dea  h  arose, 

Donica's  cheek  grew  pale, 
And  in  the  arms  of  Eberhard 

The  lifeless  Maiden  fell. 

Loudly  the  Youth  in  terror  shriek' d, 

And  loud  he  call'd  for  aid, 
And  with  a  wild  and  eager  look 

Gazed  on  the  lifeless  Maid. 

Bui  soon  again  did  better  thoughts 

In  Eberhard  arise  ; 
And  he  with  trembUng  hope  beheld 

The  Maiden  raise  her  eyes. 

And,  on  his  arm  reclined,  she  moved 

With  feeble  pace  and  slow, 
And  soon,  with  strength  recover' d,  reach'd 

The  towers  of  Arlinkow.  • 

Vet  never  to  Donica's  cheeks 
Return'd  their  lively  hue  ; 

i 
i 


173 


Her  cheeks  were  deathy  white  and  wan. 
Her  lips  a  livid  blue. 

Her  eyes,  so  bright  and  b.ack  of  yore, 
Were  now  more  black  and  bright. 

And  beam'd  strange  lustre  in  her  face. 
So  deadly  wan  and  white. 

The  dog  that  gamboU'd  by  her  side. 

And  loved  with  her  to  stray, 
Now  at  his  alter'd  mistress  howl'd, 

And  fled  in  fear  away. 

Vet  did  the  faithful  Eberhard 

Not  love  the  Maid  the  less ; 
He  gazed  with  sorrow,  but  he  g<ucu 

With  deeper  tenderness. 

And  when  he  found  her  health  unharm'4. 

He  would  not  brook  delay, 
But  press'd  the  not  unwilling  Maid 

To  fix  the  bridal  day. 

And  when  at  length  it  came,  with  joy 

He  hail'd  the  bridal  day. 
And  onv/ard  to  the  house  of  God 

They  went  their  wiUing  way. 

But  when  they  at  the  altar  stood, 

And  heard  the  sacred  rite. 
The  hallow'd  tapers  dimly  stream'd 

A  pale,  sulphureous  light. 


174  vowic^. 

And  when  the  Youth,  with  hoi/  wanntle. 

Her  hand  in  his  did  hold, 
Sudden  he  felt  Donica's  hand 

Grow  deadly  damp  and  cold. 

But  loudly  then  he  shriek'd,  for  lo! 

A  spirit  met  his  view, 
And  Eberhard  in  the  angel  form 

His  own  Donica  knew. 


That  instant  from  her  earthly 
A  Demon  howling  fled, 

And  at  the  side  of  Eberhard 
The  Uvid  corpse  fell  de^ 

Bristol   ^fm. 


RUDIGEK. 


<  Di7ens  Prin?es  and  Noblemen  being  assembled  iu  « 
beautiful  and  fair  Palace,  which  was  situate  upon  the  river 
Rhine,  they  beheld  a  boat  or  small  barge  make  toward  the 
Bhore,  drawn  by  a  Swan  in  a  silver  chain,  the  one  end 
fastened  about  her  neck,  the  other  tc  the  vessel ;  and  in  it 
an  unknown  soldier,  a  man  of  a  comely  personage  and 
graceful  presence,  who  stepped  upon  the  shore;  which 
done,  the  boat  guided  by  tbe  Swan,  left  him,  and  floated 
down  the  river.  This  man  fell  afterwards  in  league  with 
a  fair  gentlewoman,  married  her,  and  by  her  had  man;- 
children.  After  some  years,  tlie  same  Swan  came  with  the 
game  barge  unto  the  same  place  ;  the  soldier,  e'tering 
into  it,  was  carried  thence  the  way  he  came,  left  wife, 
children,  and  family,  and  was  ne\n:  seen  amongst  them 
after." 

"  Now  who  can  judge  this  to  be  other  than  one  of  those 
spirits  that  are  named  Incubi  V  says  Thomas  Heywood, 
I  have  adopted  his  story,  but  no*,  his  solution,  making  the 
unknown  soldier  not  an  evil  spirit,  but  one  who  had  pur- 
chased  prosperity  from  a  malevolent  being,  by  the  pro* 
mised  sacrifice  of  his  first-born  child. 


Bright  on  the  mountain's  heathy  siope 
The  day's  last  splendors  shhie, 

And  rich,  with  many  a  radiant  hue, 
Gleam  gayly  on  the  Rhine. 

175 


176  RUDIGER. 

And  many  a  one  fiv)m  Waldhurst's  walla 

Along  the  river  stroU'd, 
As  ruffling  o'er  the  pleasant  stream 

The  evening  gales  came  cold. 

So  as  they  stray' d  a  swan  they  saw 

Sail  stately  up  and  strong, 
And  by  a  silver  chain  he  drew 

A  little  boat  along, — 

Whose  streamer,  to  the  gentle  breeze. 
Long  floating,  flutter' d  light ; 

Beneath  whose  crimson  canopy 
There  lay  reclined  a  knight. 

With  archmg  crest  and  swelling  breast, 

On  sail'd  the  stately  swan, 
And  lightly  up  the  parting  tide 

The  .ttle  boat  came  on. 

And  onward  to  the  shore  they  drew, 
Wheie,  having  left  the  knight. 

The  little  boat  adown  the  stream 
Fell  soon  beyond  the  sight. 


Was  never  a  knight  in  Waldhurst's  wallc 

Could  with  this  stranger  vie  ;  I 

Was  never  a  youth  at  aught  esteem'd 

When  Rudiger  was  by. 

Was  nevjr  a  maid  i.i  Waldhurst's  walls 
Mi^^h'  n  a'ch  with  Marsjaret  ; 


still. 


KTJDIGER.  IT' 

Her  cheek  was  fair,  her  eyes  were  dark. 
Her  silken  locks  like  jet. 

And  many  a  rich  and  noble  youth 

Had  sought  to  win  the  fair  ; 
But  never  a  rich  and  noble  youth 

Could  rival  Rudiger. 

At  every  tilt  and  tourney  he 

Still  bore  away  the  prize  ; 
For  knightly  feais  superior  " 

And  knightly  courtesies. 

His  gallant  feats,  his  looks,  his  love, 

Soon  won  the  willing  fair  ; 
And  soon  did  Margaret  become 

The  wife  of  Rudiger, 

lake  morning  dreams  of  happiness, 

Fast  roli'd  the  months  away  ; 
For  he  was  kind,  and  she  was  kind; 

A.nd  who  so  bless'd  as  they? 

Yet  Rudiger  would  sometimes  sit 

Absorb'd  in  silent  thought, 
And  his  dark,  downward  eye  would  seem 

\\  ith  anxious  meaning  fraught  ;— 

But  soon  he  raised  his  looks  again, 

And  smiled  his  cares  away; 
And  niid  the  hall  of  gaiety 

Was  none  hke  him  bo  gay. 
12 


178  RUDIGER. 

And  onwai-d  roll'd  the  waning  montha 

The  hour  appointed  came, 
And  Margaret  her  Rudiger 

Hail'd  svith  a  father's  name. 

But  silently  did  Rudiger 

The  little  infant  see  ; 
And  darkly  on  the  babe  he  gazed,— 

A  gloomy  man  was  he 

And  when  to  bless  the  Uttle  babe 

The  holy  Father  came, 
To  cleanse  the  stains  of  sin  away 

In  Christ's  redeeming  name, — 

Vaen  did  the  cheek  of  Rudiger 

Assume  a  death-pale  hue, 
And  on  his  clammy  forehead  stood 

The  cold,  convulsive  dew  ; — 

And  faltering  in  his  speech,  he  bade 

I'he  Priest  the  rites  delay. 
Till  he  could,  to  right  health  restored, 

Enjoy  the  fesiive  day. 

When  o'er  the  many-tinted  sky 

He  saw  the  day  decUne, 
He  called  upon  his  Margaret 

Ta  walk  beside  the  Rhine. 

•'  And  we  will  take  ♦he  little  babe; 
For  soft  the  breeze  that  blows, 


RUDIGER. 

And  the  mild  murmurs  of  the  Btream 
Will  lull  him  to  repose  " 

And  so  together  forth  ihey  went ; 

The  evening  breeze  was  mild ; 
And  Rudiger  upon  his  arm 

J:'illow'd  the  little  child. 

Many  gay  companies  that  eve 

Along  the  river  roam  ; 
But  when  the  mist  began  to  rise, 

They  all  betook  them  home. 

Yet  Rudiger  continued  still 

Along  the  banks  to  roam  ; 
Nor  augV,  could  Margaret  prevail 

To  turn  his  .'jotsteps  home. 

"  Oh,  turn  thee,  turn  thee,  Rudiger ; 

The  rifing  mists  behold  ; 
The  evening  wind  is  damp  and  chill ; 

The  little  babe  is  cold  !" 

"  Now  hush  thet,  hush  thee,  Margaret  i 

The  mists  will  do  no  harm ; 
And  from  the  wind  the  little  babe 

Is  shelter'd  on  my  arm." 

'*  Oh,  turn  thee,  turn  thee,  Rudiger; 

Why  onward  wilt  thou  roam  ? 
The  moon  is  up  ;  the  night  is  cold  ; 

And  we  are  far  from  honic." 


179 


! 


1'  130  mjBTffER. 

n  He  answer'd  not;  for  now  he  saw 

J!  A  swan  come  sailing  strong  ; 

j '  And  by  a  silver  chain  he  drew 

f  A  little  boat  along, 

I  To  shore  they  came,  and  to  the  boat 

I  Fast  leap'd  he  with  the  child ; 

And  in  leap'd  Margaret,  breathless  now. 
And  pale  with  fear,  and  wild. 

With  arching  crest  and  swelling  breast 
On  sail'd  the  stately  Swan, 

And  lightly  down  the  rapid  tide 
The  little  boat  went  on. 

The  full-orb'd  moon,  that  beam'd  around 
Pale  splendor  through  the  night, 

Cast  through  the  crimson  canopy 
A  dim,  discolored  light. 

\  And  swiftly  down  the  hurrying  stream 

[  In  silence  still  they  sail, 

i  And  the  long  streamer,  fluttering  fast, 

[■  Flapp'd  to  the  heavy  gale. 

i  And  he  was  mute  in  sullen  thought, 

{■  And  she  was  mute  with  fear ; 

[•  Nor  sound  but  of  the  parting  tide 

!  Broke  on  the  listening  ear. 

The  little  babe  began  to  cry ; 
Then  Margaret  raised  her  head. 


KTTDIGER.  '81 

And  with  a  quick  and  hollow  voice, 
"  Give  me  the  child  !"  she  said. 

•♦  Now  hush  thee,  hush  thee,  Margaret? 

Nor  my  poor  heart  distress  ; 
I  do  but  pay  perforce  the  price 

Of  former  happiness. 

*'  And  hush  thee  too,  my  little  babe; 

Thy  cries  so  feeble  cease  ; 
Lie  still,  lie  still ;— a  little  while, 

And  thou  shalt  be  at  peace." 

So,^as  he  spake,  to  land  they  drew, 

And  swift  he  stepp'd  on  shore  ; 
And  him  behind  did  Margaret 

Close  follow  evermore. 

it  was  a  place  all  desolate  ; 

Nor  house  nor  tree  was  there  • 
But  there  a  rocky  mountain  rose, 

Barren,  and  bleak,  and  bare ; — 

And  at  its  base  a  cavern  yawn'd ; 

No  eye  its  depth  might  view  ; 
For  in  the  moonbeam  shining  round 

That  darkness  darker  grew. 

Cold  horror  crept  through  Margaret's  blood  ; 

Her  heart  it  paused  with  fear, 
When  Rudiger  approach' d  the  cave, 

And  cried,  "  Lo,  I  am  here  1" 


182  RUDIGER. 

A  deep,  sepulchral  sound  the  cave 

Return'd — "  Lo,  I  am  here  !" 
And  black  from  out  the  cavern  gloom 

Two  giant  arms  appear. 

And  Rudiger  approach'd,  and  held 

The  little  infant  nigh  ; 
Then  Margaret  shriek'd,  and  gather'd  then 

New  powers  from  agony. 

And  round  the  baby  fast  and  close 

Her  trembling  arms  she  folds, 
And  with  a  strong,  convulsive  grasp, 

The  httle  infant  holds. 

♦*  Now  help  me,  Jesus !"  loud  she  cries, 

And  loud  on  God  she  calls  ; 
Then  from  the  grasp  of  Rudiger 

The  Httle  infant  falls. 

The  mother  holds  her  precious  babe  ; 

But  the  black  arms  clasp'd  him  round. 
And  dragg'd  the  wretched  Rudiger 

Adown  the  dark  profound. 

Bristol,  1796. 


JASPAR. 


Jaspar  was  poor,  and  vice  and  want 

Had  made  his  heart  like  stone . 
And  Jaspar  look'd  with  envious  eye« 

On  riches  not  his  own. 

On  plunder  bent,  abroad  he  went 

Toward  the  close  of  day, 
And  loiter' d  on  the  lonely  road 

Impatient  for  his  prey. 

No  traveller  came — he  loiter'd  lon|f. 

And  often  look'd  around, 
And  paused  and  Hsten'd  eagerly 

To  catch  some  coming  sounu. 

He  sat  him  down  beside  the  stream 

That  cross' d  the  lonely  way  ; 
Bo  fair  a  scene  might  well  have  charni'd 

All  evil  thoughts  away. 

He  sat  beneath  a  willow-tree, 
Which  cast  a  trembling  shade  ; 

183 


184  JASPAR. 

The  gentle  river,  full  'Ji  front, 
A  little  island  made, — 

Where  pleasantly  the  moonbeam  shone 

Upon  the  poplar-trees, 
Whose  shadow  on  the  stream  below 

Play'd  slowly  to  the  breeze. 

He  listen'd — and  he  heard  the  wind 
That  waved  the  willow-tree  ,' 

He  heard  the  waters  flow  along. 
And  murmur  quietly 

He  listen'd  for  the  traveller's  tread 
The  nightingale  sung  sweet ; — 

He  started  up,  for  now  he  heard 
The  sound  of  coming  feet ; — 

He  started  up,  and  grasp' d  a  stake. 

And  waited  for  his  prey  ; 
There  came  a  lonely  traveller, 

And  Jaspar  cross' d  his  way. 

But  Jaspar' s  threats  and  curses  fail'd 

The  traveller  to  appai ; 
He  would  not  lightly  yield  the  purse 

Which  held  his  Uttle  all. 

Awhile  he  struggled  ;  but  he  strove 
With  Jaspar's  strength  m  vain  ; 

Beneath  his  blows  he  fell   and  groan'd. 
And  never  spake  again. 


JASPAR,  18S 

jaspar  raised  up  the  murder'd  man, 

And  plunged  him  in  the  fl'vjd. 
And  in  the  running  water  then 

lie  cleansed  ma  hands  from  blood. 

The  waters  closed  around  tlie  corpse, 
And  cleansed  his  hands  from  gore ; 

The  willow  waved,  the  stream  flow'd  on, 
And  nmrmured  as  before. 

There  was  no  human  eye  had  seen 

The  blood  the  murderer  spilt, 
And  Jaspar's  conscience  never  felt 

The  avenging  goad  of  guilt. 

And  soon  the  ruffian  had  consumed 

The  gold  he  gain'd  so  ill ; 
And  years  of  secret  guilt  pass'd  on. 

And  he  was  needy  still. 

One  eve,  beside  the  alehouse  fire 

He  sat,  as  it  befell. 
When  in  there  came  a  laboring  man 

Whom  Jaspar  knew  full  well. 

He  sat  him  down  by  Jaspar's  side, 

A  melancholy  man ; 
For,  spite  of  honest  toil,  the  world 

Went  hard  with  Jonathan. 

His  toil  a  little  earn'd,  and  he 
With  little  was  content ; 


186  JASPAR. 

But  sickness  on  his  wife  had  fallen. 
And  all  was  well-nigh  spent. 

Long  with  his  wife  and  little  ones 

He  shared  the  scanty  meal, 
And  saw  their  looks  of  wretchedness, 

And  felt  what  wretches  feel. 

Their  landlord,  a  hard  man,  that  day 

Had  seized  the  little  left ; 
And  now  the  sufferer  found  himself 

Of  every  thing  bereft. 

He  lean'd  his  head  upon  his  hand, 

His  elbow  on  his  knee  ; 
And  so  by  Jaspar's  side  he  sat, 

And  not  a  word  said  h  ■;. 

"  Nay, — why  so  downcast  ?"  Ja?par  cried, 

"  Come — cheer  up,  Jonathan  ! 
Drink,  neighbor,  drink  I  'twill  warm  thy  heart 

Cornel  come  I   take  courage,  man!" 

He  took  the  cup  that  Jaspar  gave, 

And  down  he  drain'd  it  quick; 
"I  have  a  wife,"  said  Jonathan, 

"And  she  is  deadly  sick. 

"  She  has  no  bed  to  lie  upon; 

I  saw  them  take  her  bed — 
And  I  have  children — would  to  God 

That  they  and  I  were  dead ! 


18? 


'*  Our  Landlord  he  goes  home  to-night, 
And  he  will  sleep  in  peace — 

I  would  that  I  were  in  my  grave, 
For  there  all  troubles  cease. 

**  In  vain  I  pray'd  him  to  forbear, 
Though  wealth  enough  has  he ! 

God  be  to  him  as  merciless 
As  he  has  been  to  me  !" 

When  Jaspar  saw  the  poor  man's  soul 

On  all  his  ills  intent, 
He  plied  him  with  the  heartening  cup, 

And  with  him  forth  he  went. 

"  This  landlord  on  his  homeward  road 

'Twere  easy  now  to  meet. 
The  road  is  lonesome,  Jonathan  ! — 

And  vengeance,  man  !  is  sweet." 

Fie  listen' d  to  the  tempter's  voice  , 
The  thought  it  made  him  start  ;— 

His  head  was  hot,  and  wretchedness 
Had  harden' d  now  his  heart. 

Along  the  lonely  road  they  went, 

And  waited  for  their  prey ; 
They  sat  them  down  beside  the  Btream 

That  cross'd  the  lonely  way. 

They  sat  them  down  beside  the  stream, 
And  nevor  a  word  they  said  * 


188  JASPAR. 

They  sat  ard  Hsten'd  silently 
To  hear  the  traveller's  tread. 

The  night  was  calm  ;  the  night  was  dark ; 

No  star  was  in  the  sky  ; 
The  wind  it  waved  the  willow  boughs  ; 

The  stream  flow'd  quietly. 

The  night  was  calm  ;  the  air  was  still ; 

Sweet  sung  the  nightingale  ; 
The  soul  of  Jonathan  was  soothed ; 

His  heart  began  to  fail. 

"'Tis  weary  waiting  here,"  he  cried, 

"  And  now  the  hour  is  late  ; 
Methinks  he  will  not  come  to-night ; 

No  longer  let  us  wait." 

"  Have  patience,  man  I"  the  ruffian  said; 

"  A  little  we  may  wait ; 
But  longer  shall  his  wife  expect 

Her  husband  at  the  gate." 

Then  Jonathan  grew  sick  at  heart ; 

"  My  conscience  yet  is  clear ; 
Jaspar — it  is  not  yet  too  late — 

I  will  not  Unger  here." 

'*How  now  :"  cried  Jaspar ;  "  why,  1  thought 

Thy  conscience  was  asleep  ; 
No  more  such  qualms  ;  the  night  is  dark ; 

The  river  here  is  deep." 


JASPAB.  184 

"  What  matters  that,"  said  Jonathan, 

Whose  blood  began  to  freeze, 
"  When  there  is  One  above,  whose  eye 

'1  he  deeds  of  darkness  sees  ?" 

"  We  are  safe  enough,"  said  Jaspar  then. 

*'  If  that  be  all  thy  fear  ; 
Nor  eye  above,  nor  eye  below, 

Can  pierce  the  darkness  here.  * 

That  instant,  as  the  murderer  spake, 

There  came  a  sudden  light ; 
Strong  as  the  mid-day  sun  it  shone^ 

Though  all  around  was  night. 

It  hung  upon  the  willow- tree  • 

It  hung  upon  the  flood  : 
It  gave  to  view  the  poplar  isle, 

And  all  the  scene  of  blood. 

The  traveller  who  journeys  there, 

He  surely  hath  espied 
A  madman  who  has  made  his  home 

Upon  the  river's  side. 

His  cheek  is  pale  ;  his  eye  is  wild ; 

His  looks  bespeak  despair  ; 
For  Jaspar,  since  that  hour,  has  made 

His  home,  unshelter'd,  there. 

And  fearful  are  his  dreams  at  night, 
And  dread  to  him  the  day ; 


He  thinks  upon  his  untold  crtt<». 
And  never  dares  to  pray. 

The  summer  suns,  the  winter  atcitae. 

O'er  him  unheeded  roll ; 
For  heavy  is  the  weight  of  bloo^ 

Upon  the  maniac's  sottL 


LORD  WILLIAM. 


kn  imitation  of  this  Ballad,  In  French  Terse,  bjr  J.  P 
Chatelain,  was  printed  at  Tournay,  about  1820. 


No  eye  beheld  wnen  William  plunged 
Young  Edmund  in  the  stream  ; 

No  human  ear  but  William's  heard 
Young  Edmund's  drowning  scream. 

Submissive  all  the  vassals  own'd 
The  murderer  for  their  Lord  ; 

And  he  as  rightful  heir  possess'd 
The  house  of  Erlingford. 

The  ancient  house  of  Erlingford 

Stood  in  a  fair  domain, 
And  Severn's  ample  waters  neai 

RcL'd  through  the  fertile  plain. 


Ul 


192  LORD    WILLIAM. 

And  often  the  wayfaring  man 
Would  love  to  linger  there, 

Forgetful  on  his  onward  road, 
To  ga2e  on  scenes  so  fair. 

But  never  could  Lord  William  dare 

To  gaze  on  Severn's  stream  ; 
In  every  wind  that  swept  its  waves 

He  heard  young  Edmund's  scream- 
In  vain,  at  midnight's  silent  h  'ur, 

Sleep  closed  the  murderer's  eyes 
In  e''rjy  dream  the  murderei  saw 
!  Young:  Eiimuml's  form  arise. 


In  vain,  by  r  stless  conscience  driveUi 
Lord  William  left  his  home, 

Far  from  the  scenes  that  saw  his  guiU, 
tn  pilgrimage  to  roam  ; — 

To  other  cUmes  the  pilgrim  fled. 

But  could  not  fly  despair ; 
He  sought  his  home  again,  but  peace 

Was  still  a  stranger  there. 

Slow  were  the  passing  hours,  yet  swift 
The  months  appeared  to  roll ; 

And  now  the  day  return'd  that  shook 
With  terror  WiUiam's  soul  ;— 

A  day  that  William  never  fe!t 
Return  without  diMiiar  t 


LORD    WIL.IAM.  193 

For  well  had  conscience  calender^ 
Young  Edmund's  dying  day. 

A  fearful  day  was  that ;  the  rains 

Fell  fast,  with  tempest  roar, 
And  the  swollen  tide  of  Severn  spread 

Far  on  the  level  shore. 

In  vain  Lord  WiUiarn  sought  the  feast ; 

In  vain  he  quafTd  the  bowl, 
And  strove  with  noisy  mirth  to  drown 

The  anguish  of  his  soul. 

The  tempest,  as  its  sudden  sw.ell 

In  gusty  howlings  came. 
With  cold  and  deathlike  feeling  seem'4 

To  thrill  his  shuddering  frame. 

Reluctant  now,  as  night  came  on, 
His  lonely  couch  he  press'd 


I  .  And,  weaned  out,  he  sunk  to  sleep,-*^ 

To  sleep, — but  not  to  rest. 

Beside  that  couch  his  brother's  forte, 
Lord  Edmund,  seem'd  to  stand, 

Such  and  so  pale  as  when  in  death 
He  grasp' d  his  brother's  hand  ; 

Such  and  so  pale  his  face  as  when 
AVith  faint  and  faltering  tongue, 

To  William's  care,  a  dying  charge, 
He  left  his  orphan  son. 


194  LORD  WILLIAM. 

*'  I  bade  thee  with  a  father's  love 

My  orphan  Edmund  guard  ; 
Well,  William,  hast  thou  kept  thy  charge  f 

Take  now  thy  due  reward." 

He  started  up,  each  limb  convulsed 

With  agonizing  fear ; 
He  only  heard  the  storm  of  night, — 

'Twas  music  to  his  ear. 

When  lo  I  the  voice  of  loud  alarm 

His  inmost  soul  appals  ; 
*  What  ho  !  Lord.  William,  rise  in  haste  I 
The  water  saps  thy  walls  !" 

He  rose  in  haste  ;  beneath  the  walls 

He  saw  the  flood  appear  ; 
It  hemm'd  him  round  ;  'twas  midnight  noir 

No  human  aid  was  near. 

He  heard  a  shout  of  joy  ;  for  now 

A  boat  approach' d  the  wall ; 
And  eager  tcf  the  welcome  aid 
They  crowd  for  safety  all. 

'*  My  boat  is  small,"  the  boatman  cried; 

"  'Twill  bear  but  one  away  ; 
Come  in.  Lord  William,  and  do  ye 

In  God's  protection  stay." 

Strange  feeling  filled  them  at  his  voice, 
Even  in  that  hour  of  woe. 


LORD    WILLIAM.  ^95 

That,  save  their  Lord,  there  was  not  one 
Who  wish'd  with  him  to  go. 

But  WilHam  leap'd  into  the  boat, 

His  terror  was  so  sore  ; 
"Thou  shak  have  half  my  gold,"  he  cried; 

Haste — haste  to  yonder  shore." 

The  boatman  pUed  the  oar  ;  the  boat 

Went  hght  along  the  stream  ; 
Sudden  Lord  William  heard  a  cry 

Like  Edmund's  drowning  scream. 

The  boatman  paused — "Methought  I  heard 

A  child's  distressful  cry  !" 
**  'Twas  but  the  howling  wmd  of  night," 

Lord  William  made  reply. 

*'  Haste — haste — ply  swift  and  strong  the  oar  { 
Haste — haste  across  the  stream  !" 

Again  Lord  William  heard  a  cry 
Like  Edmund's  drowning  scream. 

•'  I  heard  a  child's  distressful  voice," 

The  boatman  cried  again. 
'  Nay,  hasten  on — the  night  is  dark — 
And  we  should  search  m  vain." 

"  O  God  !  Lord  William,  dost  'hou  know 

How  dreadful  'tis  to  die  ? 
And  canst  thou  without  pity  hear 

A  child's  expiring  cry  ? 

**  How  horrible  it  is  to  sink 
Beneath  the  closing  stream, 


196  I.OKD    WILLIAM. 

To  Stretch  the  powerless  arras  in  vain. 
In  vain  lor  help  to  scream  !" 

The  shriek  again  was  heard  ;  it  came 

More  deep,  more  piercing  load  ; 
That  instant  o'er  the  flood  the  moon 

Shone  through  a  broken  cloud ; — 

And  near  them  they  beheld  a  child ; 

Upon  a  crag  he  stood, 
A  little  crag,  and  all  around 

Was  spread  the  rising  flood. 

The  boatmai  plied  the  oar  ;  the  boat 

Approach'd  his  restmg-place  ; 
The  moonbeam  shone  upon  the  child, 

And  show'd  how  pale  his  face. 

"  Now  reach  thine  hand  I"  the  boatman  ^ried 
"  Lord  William,  reach  and  save  !" 

The  child  stretch'd  forth  his  little  hands 
To  grasp  the  hand  he  gave. 

Then  William  shriek'd  ;  the  hands  he  felt 
Were  cold,  and  damp,  and  dead! 

He  held  young  Edmund  in  his  arms, 
A  heavier  weight  than  lead. 

The  boat  sunk  down  ;  the  murderer  sunk 

Beneath  the  avenging  stream  : 
He  rose  ;  he  shriek'd  ;  no  human  ear 

Heard  William's  drowning  scream. 

Westbury,  l-^gp. 


GOD  S  JUDGMENT  ON  A  WICKED 
BISHOP. 


Here  folUweth  the  History  of  HATTO,  Archbishop  ol 
Meatz. 

It  hapned  in  the  year  914,  that  there  was  an  exceeding 
great  famine  in  Germany,  at  what  time  Otho  surnamed 
the  Great  was  Emperor,  and  one  Hatto,  once  Abbot  of 
Fulda,  was  Archbishop  of  Wentz,  of  the  Bishops  after 
Cresceng  and  Cresceniius  the  two  and  thirtieth,  of  the 
Archbishops  after  St.  Bonifacius  the  thirteenth.  This  Hatto 
in  the  time  of  this  sreat  famine  afore- li.entioned,  when  he 
3aw  the  poor  people  of  the  country  exceedinirly  oppressed 
with  famine,  assembled  a  great  company  of  them  together 
into  a  Barne,  and,  like  a  most  accursd  and  mercilesse 
caitiffe.  burnt  up  these  poor  innocent  souls,  that  were  so 
far  from  doubting  any  sucli  matter,  that  they  rather  hoped 
to  receive  some  comfort  and  relief  at  his  hands.  The  rea- 
son that  moved  the  prelate  to  commit  that  execrable  ira 
piety  was,  because  he  thought  the  famine  would  the  soon 
er  cease,  if  those  unprofitable  beggars  that  consumed  more 
bread  than  they  were  worthy  to  eat,  were  despatched  out 
of  the  world.  For  he  said  thai  those  poor  folka  were  likelo 
Mice,  that  they  were  goo#for  nnthins  but  t  >  devour  come. 
But  God  Almighty,  the  just  avenger  of  the  p.x»r  folks'  quar- 
rel, did  not  long  suffer  this  hainous  tyranny,  this  moetd©. 
tesuble  fact,  unpunished.  For  he  mustered  up  an  army  of 

197 


L. 


198      god's  judgment  on  a  wicked  bishop. 

Mice  against  Ihfi  Archbishop,  and  sent  them  to  persecute 
him  as  his  furious  Alastors,  so  that  ihey  afflicted  him  both 
day  and  ninfhl,and  would  not  sutffr  hrm  to  take  his  rest  iu 
anyplace.  Whereujxjn  the  Prflatp,thiiiking  that  he  should 
be  secure  from  the  injury  of  Mice  if  he  were  in  a  certain 
lower,  that  standeth  in  the  Rhine  near  to  the  towne,  be- 
took himself  unto  the  said  tower  as  to  a  safe  refuge  and 
sanctuary  from  his  enemies,  and  locked  himself  in.  But 
j  the  innumerable  troupes  of  IVIice  chased  him  continually 

i  very  eagerly,  and  swumnie  unto  him  upon  the  top  of  the 

water  to  execute  the  just  judgment  of  God,  and  so  at  last 
he  was  most  miserably  devoured  by  these  sillie  creatures; 
who  pu!'sued  him  with  such  bitter  hostility,  that  it  is  record- 
ed they  scraped  and  knawed  out  his  very  name  from  the 
walls  and  tapistry  wherein  it  was  written,  after  they  had 
so  crueUy  devoured  his  body.  Wherefjre  the  tower  where- 
in he  was  eaten  up  by  the  Mice  is  shewn  to  this  day,  for  a 
perpetual  monument  to  all  succeeding  ages  of  the  barbar- 
ous and  inhuman  tyranny  if  this  impious  Prelate,  being 
situate  in  a  little  green  Islan  J  in  the  midst  of  the  Rhine 
near  to  the  towne  of  Bingen,  and  is  commonly  called  in 
the  German  Tongue  the  Mowseturv. 

Cortat's  Crudities,  pp.  o71, 572. 
Other  authors  who  record  this  tale  say  that  the  Bishop 
was  eaten  by  Rats. 


The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  we', 
That  in  winter  the  corn  was  growing  yet  • 
'Twas  a  piteous  sight,  to  see,  all  around, 
The  grain  lie  rotting  on  the  ground. 

Every  day  the  starving  poor 
Crowded  around  Bishop  Hatto's  door. 
For  he  had  a  pleii/iful  last-years'  store, 


god's  JtTDGMENT  ON  A   WICKED  B^HOP.     199 

A.nd  all  the  neighborhood  could  tell 
His  granaries  were  furnjsh'd  well. 

At  last  Bishop  Hatto  appointed  a  d&y 

To  quiet  the  poor  without  delay  ; 

He  bade  them  to  his  great  Barn  repair, 

And  they  should  have  food  for  the  winter  tber*. 

Rejoiced  such  tidings  good  to  hear, 
The  poor  folk  flock' d  from  far  and  near  ; 
The  great  Barn  was  full  as  it  could  hold 
Of  women  and  children,  and  young  and  old. 

Then  when  he  saw  it  could  hold  no  more, 
Bishop  Hatto  he  made  fast  the  door ; 
And  while  for  mercy  on  Christ  they  call, 
He  set  fire  to  the  Barn  and  burnt  them  all. 

"  I  faith,  'tis  an  excellent  bonfire  !"  quoth  he, 
"  And  the  country  is  greatly  obliged  to  me, 
For  ridding  it  in  these  times  forlorn 
Of  Rats  that  only  consume  the  corn." 

So  then  to  his  palace  returned  he, 

And  he  sat  dov/n  to  supper  merrily, 

And  he  slept  that  night  like  an  innocent  man; 

But  Bishop  Hatto  never  slept  again. 

In  the  morning,  as  he  enter'd  the  hall 
Where  his  picture  hung  against  the  wall, 
A  sweat  like  death  all  over  him  came, 
For  the  Rats  had  eaten  it  out  of  the  frame. 


200    god's  judgme.n't  on  a  wicked  bishop. 

As  he  look'd, there  came  a  man  from  his  farm; 
He  had  a  countenance  white  with  alarm, 
'•  My  Lord,  I  open'd  your  granaries  this  morn, 
And  the  Rats  had  eaten  all  your  corn." 

Another  came  running  presently, 

And  he  was  pale  as  pale  could  be, — 

"  Fly  !  my  Lord  Bishop,  fly,"  quoth  he 

"  Ten  thousand  Rats  are  coming  this  way,— 

The  Lord  forgive  you  for  yesterday  !" 

"I'll  go  to  my  tower  on  the  Rhine,"  replied  he, 
"Tis  the  safest  place  in  Germany  ; 
The  walls  arc  high,  and  the  shores  are  steep, 
And  the  stream  is  strong,  and  the  water  deep." 

Bishop  Hatto  fearfully  hasten'd  away, 
And  he  cross'd  the  Rhine  without  delay. 
And  he  reach'd  his  tower,  and  barr'd  with  care 
All  the  windows,  doors,  and  loop-holes  there. 

He  laid  him  down  and  closed  his  eyes  ;— 

But  soon  a  scream  made  him  arise  ; 

He  started,  and  saw  two  eyes  of  flame 

On  his  pillow,  from  whence  the  screaming  came. 

He  listen'd  and  look'd  ; — it  was  only  the  Cat ; 
But  the  Bishop  he  grew  more  fearful  for  that; 
For  she  sat  screaming   mad  with  fear 
At  the  Army  of  Rats  that  were  drawing  near. 

For  they  have  swam  over  he  river  so  deep, 
And  they  have  chmb  d  the  shores  so  steep, 


god's  judgment  on  a  wicked  bishop.    20i 

And  up  the  tower  their  waj  is  bent, 

To  do  the  work  for  which  they  were  sent. 

They  are  not  to  be  told  by  the  dozen  or  score ; 
By  thousands  they  come,  and  by  myriads  and 

more. 
Such  numbers  had  never  been  heard  of  before ; 
Such  a  judgment  had  never  been  witness'd  of 

yore. 

Down  on  his  knees  the  Bishop  fell. 
And  faster  and  faster  his  beads  did  he  tell 
As  louder  and  louder  drawing  near 
The  gnawing  of  their  teeth  he  could  hear. 

And  in  at  the  windows,  and  in  at  the  door, 
And  through  the  walls,  helter-skelter  they  pour 
And  down  from  the  ceiUng,  and  up  through  the 

floor, 
From  the  right  and  the  left,  from  behind  and 

before, 
From  within  and  without,  from  above  and  below, 
And  all  at  once  to  the  Bishop  they  go. 

They  have  whetted  their  teeth  against  the  stones, 
And  now  they  pick  the  Bishop's  bones; 
They  gnaw'd  the  flesh  from  every  limb, 
For  they  were  sent  to  do  judgment  on  him! 

Wesibury,  1799. 


KING   HENR>    V.  AND  THE  HERMIT 
JF  DREUX. 


XMiile  Henry  V.  lay  at  the  siege  of  Dreux,  an  honest 
Hermit,  unknown  to  him,  came  and  told  him  the  great 
evils  he  brought  on  Christendom  by  his  unjust  ambition, 
who  usurped  the  kingdom  of  France,  against  all  niEinuer 
of  right,  and  contrary  to  the  will  of  God ;  wherefore,  in  his 
holy  name,  he  threatened  him  with  a  severe  and  sudden 
punishment  if  he  desisted  not  from  his  enterprise.  Henry 
took  this  exhortation  either  as  an  idle  whimsey,  or  a  rag- 
gestion  of  the  dauphin's,  and  was  but  the  more  confirmed 
in  his  design.  But  the  blow  soon  followed  the  threaten- 
ing ;  for,  within  some  few  months  after,  he  was 
Vrtth  a  strange  and  incurable  disease.— Mezbbay. 


He  pass'd  unquestion'd  through  the  camp; 

Their  heads  the  soldiers  bent 
In  silent  reverence,  or  begg'd 

A  blessing  as  he  went : 
And  so  the  Hermit  pass'd  along, 

And  reached  the  royal  tent. 


HENRY  V.  AND  THE  HERMIT  OF  DREUX.     203 

King  Henry  sat  in  his  tent  alone ;  • 

The  map  before  him  lay; 
Fresh  conquests  he  was  planning  there 

To  grace  the  future  day. 

King  Henry  lifted  up  his  eyes 

The  intruder  to  behold  ; 
With  reverence  he  the  hermit  saw 

For  the  holy  man  was  old  ; 
His  look  was  gentle  as  a  Saint's, 

And  yet  his  eye  was  bold. 

"  Repent  thee,  Henry,  of  the  wrongs 
Which  thou  hast  done  this  land ! 

O  King,  repent  in  time,  for  know 
The  judgment  is  at  hand. 

"  I  have  pass'd  forty  years  of  peace 

Beside  the  river  Blaise  ; 
But  what  a  weight  of  woe  hast  thou 

Laid  on  mv  latter  days  ! 

"  I  used  to  see  along  the  stream 

The  white  sail  gliding  down, 
That  wafted  food,  in  better  times, 

To  yonder  peacefu'  town. 

'*  Henry  I  I  never  now  behold 

The  white  sail  gliding  down ; 
Famine,  Disease,  and  Death,  and  Thou 

Destroy  that  wretched  town. 

'•  I  used  to  hear  the  traveller's  voice 
As  here  he  pass'd  along, 


204  HENRY  V.  AND  THE  HERMIT  OF  DREUX. 

Or  maiden,  as  she  loiter' d  home 
Singing  her  evening-song. 

"  No  traveller's  voice  may  now  be  heard  { 

In  fear  he  hastens  by  ; 
But  I  have  heard  the  village  maid 

"In  vain  for  succor  cry. 

*'  I  used  to  see  the  youths  row  down, 

And  watch  the  dripping  oar, 
As  pleasantly  their  viol's  tones 

Came  soften'd  to  the  shore. 

"  King  Henry,  many  a  blacken'd  corpse 

I  now  see  floating  down  ! 
Thou  man  of  blood  !  repent  in  time. 

And  leave  this  leaguer' d  town.*' 

'•  I  shall  go  on,"  King  Henry  cried, 
'*  And  conquer  this  good  land ; 

Seest  thou  not,  Hermit,  that  the  Lord 
Hath  given  it  to  my  hand  ?" 

The  Hermit  heard  King  Henry  speak. 
And  angrily  look'd  down  ; — 

His  face  was  gentle,  and  for  that 
More  solemn  was  his  frown. 

"  What  if  no  miracle  from  Heaven 

The  murderer's  control ; 
Think  you  for  that  the  weight  of  blood 

Lies  lighter  on  his  soul  ? 


"lEY  W.  AND  THE  HERMIT   OF  DREUX.     3(35 

I   »ii  conqueror  King,  repent  in  time, 
^)«ad  the  coming  woe  ! 
For,  rienry,  thou  hast  heard  the  threat, 
And  soon  shalt  feel  the  blow  '" 

King  Henry  forced  a  careless  smile. 

As  the  hermit  went  his  way  ; 
But  Henry  soon  remember'd  hJJS 

Upon  his  dying  day. 

Wcstbury,  17m 


OLD  OHRISTOVAL'S  ADVICE, 

AUD  THE  REASON  WHY  HE  GAVE  IT. 


"  If  thy  debtor  be  poor,"  old  Christoval  said, 

"  Exact  not  too  hardly  thy  due ; 
For  he  who  preserves  a  poor  man  from  want 

May  preserve  him  from  w.  kedness  too. 

"  If  thy  neighbor  should   sin,"  old  Christova] 
said, 

"  O  never  unmerciful  be  ; 
But  remember  it  is  through  the  mercy  of  God 

That  thou  art  not  as  sinful  as  he. 

"At  sixty-and-seven,  the  hope  of  Heaven 
Is  my  comfort,  through  God's  good  grace 

My  summons,  in  truth,  had  I  perish'd  in  youth, 
Must  have  been  to  a  different  place." 

''  You  shall  have  the  farm,  young  Christoval," 
My  master  Henrique  said  ; 

206 


OLD    CHRISTOVAL's    ADVICE.  207 

*'  But  a  surety  provide,  in  whom  I  can  confide; 
That  duly  the  rent  shall  be  paid." 

I  was  poor,  and  I  had  not  a  friend  upon  earth, 

And  I  knew  not  what  to  say  ; 
We  stood  in  the  porch  of  St.  Andrew's  Church, 

And  it  was  St.  Isidro's  day, 

**  Take  St.  Isidro  for  my  pledge," 

I  ventured  to  make  reply  ; 
**  The  Saint  in  Heaven  may  be  my  friend, 

But  friendless  on  earth  am  I." 

We  enter'd  the  Church,  and  went  to  his  shrine 
And  I  fell  on  my  bended  knee — 

"  I  am  friendless,  holy  Isidro, 
And  therefore  I  call  upon  thee ! 

*'  I  call  upon  thee  my  surety  to  be ; 
I  My  purpose  is  honest  and  true; 

I  And  if  ever  I  break  my  plighted  word, 

O  Saint,  mayst  thou  make  me  rue!" 

I  was  idle,  and  quarter-day  came  on, 
And  I  had  not  the  rent  in  store  ; 

I  fear'd  St.  Isidro's  anger. 
But  I  dreaded  my  landlord  more. 

So,  on  a  dark  nirrht,  I  took  my  flight, 

And  stole  hk.;  a  thief  away  ; 
It  happen" d  thai  l)y  St.  Andrew's  Church 

'Ihe  road  1  had  chossn  lay. 


!  206  OLD    CHRIS rOV/.L's   ADVICE. 

As  I  past  the  Church  door,  I  thought  how  I 
swore 

Upon  St.  Isidro's  day  ; 
That  the  Saint  was  so  near  increased  my  fear, 

And  faster  I  hasten' d  away. 

So  all  night  long  I  hurried  on, 

Pacing  full  many  a  mile, 
And  knew  not  his  avenging  hand 

Was  on  me  all  the  while. 

Weary  I  was,  yet  safe,  I  thought ; 

But  v/hen  it  was  day-light, 
I  had,  I  found,  been  running  round 

And  round  the  Church  all  night. 

I  shook  hke  a  palsy,  and  fell  on  my  knees, 
And  for  pardon  devoutly  I  pray'd  ; 

When  my  master  came  up — "  What,  Christoval 
You  are  here  betimes  I"  he  said. 

"  I  have  been  idle,  good  Master,"  said  I, 
"  Good  Master,  and  I  have  done  wrong; 

And  I  have  been  running  round  the  Church 
In  penance  all  night  long." 

i  "  If  thou  hast  been  idle,"  Henrique  replied, 

j  "  Henceforth  thy  fault  amend  ! 

I  will  not  oppress  thee,  Christoval, 
And  the  Saint  may  thy  labor  befriend." 

Homeward  I  went  a  penitent, 
And  from  that  day  I  idled  no  more ; 


OLD    CHRTSTOVAL's    4  D  VICE.  809 

St.  Isidro  bless'd  my  industry, 
As  he  punish' d  my  sloth  before. 

"  When  my  debtor  was  poor,"  old,  Christoval 
said, 

"  I  have  never  exacted  my  due  ; 
But  remembering  my  master  was  good  to  me, 

I  copied  his  goodness  too. 

"  When  my  neighbor  hath  sinn'd,"  old  Christo 
val  said, 

"  I  judged  not  too  hardly  his  sin, 
But  thought  of  the  night  by  St.  Andrew's  Cnurch 

And  consider'd  what  I  might  have  been." 

Wetthury,  1798, 

14 


CORNELIUS  AGRIPPA, 

jl  A  BALLAD. 

3F  A  YOUNG  MAX  THAT  WOUI.n  REAP  TJNLAWFUI 
BOOKS,  AND  HO^  HE  WAS  PONISHED. 


VERY  PITHY  AND  PROFITABLE. 


Cornelius  Agrippa  went  out  one  day; 
His  Study  he  lock'd  ere  he  went  away, 
And  he  gave  the  key  of  the  door  to  his  wife, 
And  charged  her  to  keep  it  lock'd  on  her  life. 

"  And  if  any  one  ask  my  Study  to  see, 
I  charge  you  to  trust  them  not  with  the  key , 
Whoever  may  beg,  and  entreat,  and  implore, 
On  your  Ufe  let  nobody  enter  that  door." 

There  lived  a  young  man  in  the  house,  who  in 

vai'i 
Access  to  that  Study  had  sought  to  obtain ; 

210 


CORNELIUS    A.GRIPPA.  211 

And  he  begg'd  and  pray'd  the  books  to  seCj 
Till  the  foolish  woman  gave  him  the  key. 

On  the  Study-table  a  book  there  lay, 

Which  Agrippa  himself  had  been  reading  thai 

day  ; 
The  letters  were  written  with  blood  therein, 
And  the  leaves  were  made  of  dead  men's  skin  ;— 

And  these  h;irrible  'eaves  of  n'agic  between 
Were  the  ugliest  pictures  that  ever  was  seen, 
The  likeness  of  things  so  foul  to  behold, 
That  what  they  were  is  not  fit  to  be  told. 

The  young  man  he  began  to  read 
He  knew  not  what ;  but  he  would  proceed, 
When  there  was  heard  a  sound  at  the  door 
Which,  as  he  read  on,  grew  more  and  more. 

And  more  and  more  the  knocking  grew ; 
The  young  man  knew  not  what  to  do , 
But,  trembling,  in  fear  he  sat  within, 
Till  the  door  was  broke,  and  the  Devil  came  in 

Two  hideous  horns  on  his  head  he  had  got, 
Like  iron  heated  nine  times  red-hot; 
The  breath  of  his  nostrils  was  brimstone  blue. 
And  his  tale  like  a  fiery  serpent  grew. 

"What  wouldst  thou  with  me?"  the  Wicked 

One  cried, 
But  not  a  word  the  young  man  replied ; 


212  CORNELIUS    AGRIPPA. 

Every  hair  on  his  head  was  standing  upright, 
And  his  Hmbs  like  a  palsy  shook  with  affright. 

"  What  wouldst  thou  with  me  ?"  cried  the  Au 

thor  of  ill ; 
But  the  wretched  young  man  was  silent  still ; 
Not  a  word  had  his  lips  the  power  to  say ; 
And  his  marrow  seem'd  to  be  melting  away. 

**  What  wouldst  thou  with  me  ?"  the  third  time 

he  cries, 
And  a  flash  of  lightning  came  from  his  eyes, 
And  he  lifted  his  griffin  claw  in  the  air, 
And  the  young  man  had  not  strength  for  a  prayer. 

His  eyes  red  fire  and  fury  dart 

t  As  out  he  tore  the  young  man's  heart ; 

I  He  grinn'd  a  horrible  grin  at  his  prey  ; 

And  in  a  clap  of  thunder  vanish' d  away. 

( 

i  THE   MORAi^. 

Henceforth  let  all  young  men  take  heed 
How  in  a  Conj-arer's  bcoks  they  read. 

Westbury    PdS, 


ST.  ROMUALD. 


One  day,  it  matters  not  to  know 
How  many  hundred  years  ago, 
A  Frenchman  stopp'd  at  an  inn  door  : 
The  Landlord  came  to  welcome  him,  and  chal 

Of  this  and  that. 
For  he  had  seen  the  Traveller  there  before. 
"  Doth  holy  Romuald  dwell 
Still  in  his  cell  ?" 
The  Traveller  ask'd,  "  or  is  the  old  man  dead  f 
"  No  ;  he  has  left  his  loving  flock,  and  we 
So  great  a  Christian  never  more  shall  see,'* 
The  Landlord  answer'd,  and  he  shook  his  bead, 

"Ah,  sir,  we  knew  his  worth  ! 
If  ever  there  did  live  a  Saint  on  earth  !— 
Why,  Sir,  he  always  used  to  wear  a  shirt 
For  thirty  days,  all  seasons,  day  and  night : 

Good  man,  he  knew  it  was  not  right 
For  Dust  and  Ashes  to  fall  out  wiih  Dirt ; 
And  then  he  only  hung  it  out  in  the  rain, 
And  pat  it  yn  again. 

213 


214  ST.    ROMUALD. 

"  There  has  been  perilous  work 
With  him  and  the  Devil  there  in  yonder  cell  ; 
For  Satan  used  to  maul  him  like  a  Turk. 
There  thev  would  sometimes  fight 
•  All  through  a  winter's  night, 
From  sunset  until  morn, 
He  with  a  cross,  the  Devil  with  his  horn  ; 
The  Devil  spitting  fire  with  might  and  main, 
Enough  to  make  St.  Michael  half  afraid  ; 
He  splashing  holy  water  till  he  made 
His  red  hide  hiss  again, 
And  the  hot  vapor  fill'  d  the  smoking  cell. 
This  was  so  common  that  his  face  became 
All  black  and  yellow  with  the  brimstone  flame 
And  then  he  smeU, — O  Lord !  how  he  did  smell . 

"  Then,  Sir  !  to  see  how  he  would  mortify 
The  flesh  !  If  any  one  had  dainty  fare, 
Good  man,  he  would  come  there. 
And  look  at  all  j:he  dehcate  things,  and  cry 

'  O  Belly,  Belly, 

You  would  be  gormandizing  now,  1  know ; 

But  it  shall  not  be  so  ! — 

Homo  to  yoiir  bread  and  watei — home, I  tell  ye!"* 

"But,"  quoth  the  Traveller,  "  wherefore  didh« 

leave 
A  flock  that  knew  his  saintly  worth  so  well?" 
**  Why,"  said  the  Landlord,  "  Sir,  it  so  befell 
He  heard  unluckily  of  our  intent 
To  do  him  a  great  honor  ,*  and,  you  know 


H-T.    KOMUAID.  215 

He  was  not  covetous  cf  fame  below, 
And  so  by  stealth  one  night  away  he  went." 

•'What   might  this  honor  be?"  the   Traveller 
cried. 
•'  Why,  Sir,"  the  host  replied, 
■'  We  thought  perhaps  that  he  might  one  day 
leave  us; 
And  then  should  strangers  have 
The  good  man's  grave, 
A  loss  like  that  would  naturally  grieve  us ; 
For  he'll  be  made  a  Saint  of,  to  be  sure. 
Therefore  we  thought  it  prudent  to  secure 
His  relics  while  we  might ; 
And  RO  ■*«  meant  to  strangle  him  one  night." 

'^^ibu^y,  1798. 


BRCUGH  BELLS 


'The  church  al  Brough  is  a  pretty  laree,  handsome,  an* 
ieni  building.  The  steeple  is  not  so  old,  having  been 
built  about  he  year  1513,  under  the  direction  of  Thomas 
Blenkinsop,  of  Helbeck,  Esq.  There  are  in  it  four  excel- 
lent bells,  by  much  the  latest  in  the  county,  except  the 
great  bell  at  Kirkby  Thore.  Concerning  these  bells  at 
Brough,  there  is  a  tradition  that  they  were  given  by  one 
•Brunskill,  who  lived  upon  Stanemore,  in  the  remotest 
part  (  f  the  parish,  and  had  a  srreat  many  cattle.  One  time 
it  happened  that  his  Bull  fell  a  bellowing,  which  in  the 
dialect  of  the  country  is  called  cruning,  this  being  the 
genuine  Saxon  word  to  denote  that  vociferation.  There- 
upon he  said  to  one  of  his  neighbors, '  Hearest  thou  how 
loud  this  bull  crimes'?  If  these  cattle  should  all  crune 
together,  might  they  not  be  heard  from  Brough  hither?' 
He  answered,  'Yea.'  'Well  then,' says  Brunskill,  'I'll 
make  them  all  crune  together.'  And  he  sold  them  all, 
and  with  the  price  there^'f  he  ijought  the  said  bells,  (or 
perhaps  he  might  get  the  old  bells  new  cast  and  made 
larger.")  There  is  a  monument  in  the  body  of  the  church, 
in  the  south  wall,  between  the  hiirhest  and  second  window, 
*nd  in  which  it  is  said  the  said  Brunskill  was  the  last  that 
was  interred."— Alcolsan  and  Butjis''  History  and  Anti 
tfuities  of  Westmoreland  and  Cumberland^  vol.  i.  p.  571 

216 


I 


BR0U6H   BELLS.  217 


One  day  to  Helbeck  I  had  stroll'd, 

Among  the  Crossfell  Hills, 
And,  resting  in  its  rocky  grove, 

Sat  listening  to  the  rills, — 

The  while  to  their  sweet  undersong 

The  birds  sang  blithe  around, 
And  the  soft  west  wind  awoke  the  wood 

To  an  intermitting  sound. 

Louder  or  fainter,  as  it  rose 

Or  died  away,  was  borne 
The  harmony  ^f  merry  bells. 

From  BrOiigh,  that  pleasant  morn. 

«*  Why  are  the  merry  bells  of  Brough, 

My  friend,  so  few  ?"  said  I ; 
"  They  disappoint  the  expectant  ear, 

Which  they  should  gratify. 

"  One,  two,  three,  four;  one,  two,  three,  fo«» 

'Tis  still  one,  two,  three,  four; 
Mellow  and  silvery  are  the  tones ; 

But  I  wish  the  bells  were  more  !" 

♦  What !  art  thou  critical  ?"  quoth  he  ; 

•'  Eschew  that  heart's  disease 
That  seeketh  for  displeasure  where 

The  intent  hath  been  to  please. 

•♦  By  those  four  bells  there  hangs  a  tale, 
Which  being  told,  I  guess, 


218  BROaGH    BELLS. 

Will  make  thee  hear  their  scanty  peal 
With  proper  thankfulness. 

"  Not  by  the  Cliffords  were  they  giveiXf 

Nor  by  the  Tuftons'  Hne ; 
Thou  hearest  in  that  peal  the  crune 

Of  old  John  Brunskill's  kine. 

"On  Stanemore's  side,  one  summer  eve 

John  Brunskill  sat  to  see 
His  herds  in  yonder  Borrodale 

Come  winding  up  the  lea. 

"Behind  them,  on  the  lowland's  vergC; 

In  the  evening  light  serene, 
Brough's  silent  tower,  then  newly  built 

By  Blenkinsop,  was  seen. 

"  Slowly  they  came  in  long  array, 

With  loitering  pace  at  will ; 
At  times  a  low  from  them  was  heard, 

Far  off,  for  all  was  still. 

'*  The  hills  retum'd  that  lonely  sound 

Upon  the  tranquil  air  ; 
The  only  sound  it  was,  which  then 

Awoke  the  echoes  there. 

"  'Thou  hear'st  that  lordly  bull  of  mme. 
Neighbor,'  quoth  Brunskill  then  ; 

'How  loudly  to  the  hills  he  crunes. 
Thai  crune  to  him  again  ! 


BROUGH    BELLS.  219 

"  '  Thinkest  thou  if  yon  whole  herd  at  once 

Their  voices  should  combine, 
Were  they  at  Brough,  that  we  might  not 
Hear  plainly  from  this  upland  spot 

That  cruning  of  the  kine  ?' 

"  '  That  were  a  crune,  indeed,'  replied 

His  comrade,  '  which,  I  ween, 
Might  at  the  Spital  well  be  heard, 

And  in  all  dales  between. 

"  '  Up  Mallerstang  to  Eden's  springs, 
The  eastern  wind  upon  its  wings 

The  mighty  voice  would  bear; 
And  Appleby  would  hear  the  sound, 

Methinks,  when  skies  are  fair.' 

•'  '  Then  shall  the  herd,'  John  Bninskill  cried, 

'From  yon  dumb  steeple  crune, 
And  thou  and  I,  on  this  hill-side. 

Will  hsten  to  their  tune. 

*'  *  So,  while  the  merry  Bells  of  Brough, 

For  many  an  age  ring  on, 
Johri  Brunskill  will  remember'd  be. 

When  he  is  dead  and  gone,— 

•*  *  As  one  who,  in  his  latter  years, 

Contented  with  enough, 
Save  freely  what  he  well  could  spare 

To  buy  the  bells  of  Brough.' 


220  BROUGH   BELLS, 

•* '  Thus  it  hath  proved:  three  hundred  years 

Since  then  have  past  away, 
And  Brunskill's  is  a  living  name 
Among  us  to  this  day  " 

*' '  More  pleasure,"  I  rep'xed,  "  shaii  - 

From  this  time  forth  partake, 
Whe:i  I  remember  Helbeck  woods, 

For  old  John  Brunskill's  sake. 

"  He  knew  how  wholesome  it  would  be. 

Among  these  wild,  wide  fells, 
And  upland  vales,  to  catch,  at  times, 

The  sound  of  Christian  bells ; — 

"  What  feelings  and  what  impulses 

Their  cadence  m.ight  convey 
To  herdsmen  or  to  shepherd  boy, 
Whiling  in  indolent  employ 

The  soUtary  day  ; — 

"  That,  when  his  brethren  were  convened 

To  meet  for  social  prayer, 
He  too,  admonish'd  by  the  call, 

In  spirit  might  be  there  ; — 

"  Or,  when  a  glad  thanksgiving  sound; 

Upon  the  winds  of  Heaven, 
Was  sent  to  speak  a  Nation's  joy, 

For  some  great  blessing  given,— 

**  For  victory  by  sea  or  land, 
And  happy  peace  at  length, 


BROUQH    BELLS.  221 

Peace  hy  his  country's  valor  wen. 
And  'stablish'd  by  her  strength; — 

"  When  such  exultant  peals  were  borne 

Upon  the  mountain  air, 
Ti.e  sound  should  stir  his  blood,  and  give 

An  English  impulse  there." 

Such  thoughts  were  in  the  old  man's  mind. 

When  he  that  eve  look'd  down 
From  Stanemore's  side  on  Bonodale, 

And  on  the  distant  town. 

And  had  I  store  of  wealth,  methiuks, 

Another  herd  of  kine, 
John  Brunskill,  I  would  freely  give. 

That  they  might  crune  with  thine. 

Keswick,  1828. 


1 


QUEEN  MARY'S  CHRISTENING, 


The  atory  is  told  at  great  length  in  La  Histona  del 
muy  alto  e  invencible  Rey  Don  Jayme  de  Aragon. 

In  justice  to  the  Queen,  I  ara  bound  to  say  that  Miedes 
represents  her  as  beautiful  and  of  unblemished  reputation, 
hermosa  y  honestissima ;  and  in  justice  \o  the  King,  pro. 
fligate  as  he  was,  that  there  was  a  very  strong  suspicion  of 
Donna  Maria's  being  secretly  married  to  another  husband, 
by  whom  she  had  two  daughters,  a  story  which  had  reached 
the  King,  and  which  Miedes  seenui  to  accredit. 


The  first  wish  of  Queen  Mary's  heart 

Is,  that  she  may  bear  a  son, 
Who  shall  inherit  in  his  time 

The  kingdom  of  Aragon. 

She  hath  put  up  prayers  to  all  the  Sainta 

This  blessing  to  accord,  . 
But  chiefly  she  hath  call'd  upon 

The  Apostles  of  our  Lord. 


222 


QUEEN  Mary's  chkistening.  223 

The  second  wish  of  Queen  Mary's  heart 

Is  to  have  that  son  call'd  James, 
Because  she  thought  for  a  Spanish  King 

'Twas  the  best  of  all  good  names. 

To  give  him  this  name  of  hei  own  will 

Is  what  may  not  be  done, 
For,  having  applied  to  all  the  Twelve, 

She  may  not  prefer  the  one. 

By  one  of  their  names  she  hath  vow'd  to  call 

Her  son,  if  son  it  should  be  ; 
But  which,  is  a  point  whereon  she  must  let 

The  Apostles  themselves  agree. 

Already  Queen  Mary  hath  to  them 

Contracted  a  grateful  debt ; 
And  from  their  patronage  she  hoped 

For  these  further  blessings  yet. 

Alas !  it  was  not  her  hap  to  be 

As  handsome  as  she  was  good ; 
And  that  her  husband  King  Pedro  thought  80, 

She  very  well  understood. 

She  had  lost  him  from  her  lawful  bed 

For  the  lack  of  personal  graces. 
And  by  prayers  to  them,  and  a  pious  deceit, 

She  had  compass'd  his  embraces. 

But  if  this  hope  of  a  son  should  fail. 
All  hope  must  fail  with  it  then, 


224  QUEEN  Mary's  christenino. 

For  she  could  not  expect  by  a  second  device 
To  compass  the  King  again. 

Queen  Mary  hath  had  her  first  heart's  wish — 
She  hath  brought  forth  a  beautiful  boy  ; 

And  the  bells  have  rung,  and  masses  been  sung 
And  bonfires  have  blazed  for  joy. 

And  many's  the  cask  of  good  red  wine, 
And  many  the  cask  of  the  white, 

Which  was  broach'd  for  joy  that  morning, 
And  emptied  before  it  was  night 

But  now  for  Queen  Mary's  second  heart's 

It  must  be  determined  now  ; 
And  Bishop  Boyl,  her  Confessor, 

Is  tne  person  who  taught  her  how. 

Twelve  waxen  tapers  he  hath  had  made, 

In  size  and  weight  the  same  ; 
vnd  to  each  of  these  twelve  tapers, 
He  hath  given  an  Apostle's  name. 

Jne  holy  Nun  had  bleached  the  wax, 

Another  the  wicks  had  spun  ; 
And  the  golden  candlesticks  were  bless'd. 

Which  they  were  set  apon. 

From  that  which  shoudl  burn  the  longeaf  ^ 

The  infant  his  name  must  take ; 
And  the  Sair.t  who  own'd  it  was  to  bo 
.  His  patron  for  his  rame's  sake. 


QUEEN  Mary's  christening.  225 

A  godlier  or  a  goodlier  sight 

Was  nowhere  to  be  seen, 
Methinks,  that  day,  in  Christendom, 

Than  in  the  chamber  of  that  good  Queen 

Twelve  little  altars  have  been  there 

Erected,  for  the  nonce ; 
And  the  twelve  tapers  are  set  thereon, 

Which  are  all  to  be  lit  at  once. 

Altars  more  gorgeously  dress' d 

You  nowhere  could  desire  ; 
At  each  there  stood  a  ministering  Priest 

In  his  most  rich  attire. 

A  high  altar  hath  there  been  raised, 

Where  the  Crucifix  you  see  ; 
And  the  sacred  Pix  that  shines  with  gold 

And  sparkles  with  jewelry. 

Bishop  Boyl,  with  his  precious  mitre  Qa« 

Hath  taken  there  his  stand, 
In  robes  which  were  embroidered 

By  the  Queen's  own  royal  hand. 

In  one  part  of  the  ante-room 

The  Ladies  of  the  Queen, 
All  with  their  rosaries  in  hand, 

Upon  their  knees  are  seen. 

In  the  other  pari  of  the  ante-room, 
The  Chiefs  of  the  realm  you  behold, 
15 


226  QUEEN   mart's    CHRISTENINa. 

Ricos  Omes,  and  Bishops,  and  Abbots, 
And  Knights,  and  Barons  bold. 

Queen  Mary  could  behold  all  this 

As  she  lay  in  her  state  bed  ; 
And  from  the  pillow  needed  not 

To  lift  her  languid  head. 

One  fear  she  had,  though  still  her  heart 
The  unwelcome  thought  eschew'd, 

That  haply  the  unlucky  lot 
Might  fall  upon  St,  Jude. 

But  the  Saints,  she  trusted,  that  ill  chance 

Would  certainly  forefend  ; 
And  moreover  there  was  a  double  hope 

Of  seeing  the  wish'd  for  end  ; — 

Because  there  was  a  double  chance 
For  the  best  of  all  good  names  ; 

If  it  should  not  be  Santiago  himself, 
It  might  be  the  lesser  St.  James. 

And  now  Bishop  Boyl  bath  said  the  mass  ■ 
And  as  soon  as  the  mass  was  done, 

The  priests,  who  by  the  twelve  tapers  stood 
Each  instantly,  Ughted  one. 

The  tapers  were  short  and  slender  too, 

Yet  to  the  expectant  throng. 
Before  they  to  the  socket  burnt, 

The  time,  I  trow,  seem'd  long. 


QUEEN  Mary's  christening.  227 

The  first  that  went  out  was  St.  Peter, 

The  second  was  St   John  ; 
And  now  St.  Matthias  is  going, 

And  now  St.  Matthew  is  gone. 

Next  there  went  St.  Andrew  ; 

There  goes  St.  Philip  too; 
And  see  !  there  is  an  end 

Of  St.  Bartholomew. 

St.  Simon  is  in  the  snuff ; 

But  it  was  a  matter  of  doubt 
Whether  he  or  St.  Thomas  could  be  said 

Soonest  to  have  gone  out. 

There  are  only  three  remaining, 

St.  Jude,  and  the  two  St.  James; 
And  great  was  then  Queen  Mary's  hope 

For  the  best  of  all  good  names. 

Great  was  then  Queen  Mary's  hope. 

But  greater  her  fear,  I  guess. 
When  one  of  the  three  went  out. 

And  that  one  was  St.  James  the  Less. 

They  are  now  within  less  than  quarter*inch, 

The  only  remaining  two ! 
When  there  came  a  thief  in  St.  James. 

And  it  made  a  gutter  too  I 

Up  started  Queen  Mary 
Up  she  sat  in  her  bed ; 


228  QUEEN   mart's    CHRISTEWIN*. 

*'  I  never  can  call  him  Judas  !" 
She  clasp' d  her  hands  and  said. 

"  I  never  can  call  him  Judas  V* 

Again  did  she  exclaim  ; 
*'  Holy  Mother,  preserve  us  I 

It  is  not  B  Christian  name  !" 

She  spread  her  hands,  and  claspM  them  agwij 

And  the  Infant  in  the  cradle 
Set  up  a  cry,  an  angry  cry. 

As  loud  as  he  was  able. 

"  Holy  Mother,  preserve  us  !" 
The  Queen  her  prayer  renew'd  ; 

When  in  came  a  moth  at  the  wnndow, 
And  fluttered  about  St.  Jude. 

St.  James  hath  fallen  in  the  socket, 

But  as  yet  the  flame  is  not  out ; 
And  St.  Jude  hath  singed  the  silly  moth 

That  flutters  so  bUndly  about. 

And  before  the  flame  and  the  molten  wax 

That  silly  moth  could  kill. 
It  hath  beat  out  St.  Jude  with  its  wings. 

And  St.  James  is  burning  still ! 

Oh,  that  was  a  joy  for  Q  leen  Mary's  heart; 

The  babe  is  christene'*  James; 
The  Prince  of  Aragon  H<rth  got 

The  best  of  all  good  names ' 


QUEEN  mart's  christening.         229 

Glory  to  Santiago, 

The  mighty  one  in  war  ! 
James  he  is  call'd,  and  he  shall  be 

King  James  the  Conqueror  i 

Now  shall  the  Crescent  wane, 

The  Cross  be  set  on  high 
In  triumph  upon  many  a  Mosque ; 

Woe,  woe  to  Mawmetry  ! 

Valencia  shall  be  subdued  ; 

Majorca  shall  be  won  ; 
The  Moors  be  routed  every  where  ; 

Joy,  joy,  for  Aragon  ! 

Shme  brighter  now,  ye  stars,  tHat  crown 

Our  Lady  del  Pilar, 
And  rejoice  in  thy  grave,  Cid  Campeadw 

Ruydiez  de  Bivar ! 

Keswick   1829, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE  RETROSPECT. 


Corston  is  a  small  village  about  three  miles  from  Bath, 
%  little  to  the  left  of  the  Bristol  road.  The  manor  was 
paned  with  by  the  monks  of  Bath,  about  the  reign  of  Henry 
I ,  to  Sir  Roger  de  St.  Lo,  in  exchange.  It  continued  in  his 
family  till  the  reign  of  Edward  U.,  when  it  passed  to  the 
family  of  Inge,  who  are  said  to  have  been  domestics  to  the 
St.  Los  for  several  generations.  In  process  of  time,  it  came 
to  the  Harringtons,  and  was  by  them  sold  to  Joseph  Lang- 
ton,  whose  daughter  and  heiress  brought  it  in  marriage  to 
William  Gore  Langton,  Esq 

The  church,  which,  in  1282,  was  valued  at  7mark8,  9s. 
4d.,  was  appropriated  to  the  prior  and  convent  of  Bath ;  and 
a  vicarage  ordained  here  by  Bishop  John  de  Drokensford, 
Nov.  1, 1321,  decreeing  that  the  vicar  and  his  successors 
in  peipetuum  should  have  a  hall,  with  chambers,  kitchen, 
and  bakeho  ise,  with  a  third  part  of  the  garden  and  curti- 
lage, and  a  pigeon-house,  formerly  Ijelonging  to  the  par- 

233 


234  THE   RETROSPECT. 

Bonage;  that  he  should  have  one  acre  of  aiible  land,  con- 
Bistlng  of  three  parcels,  late  part  of  the  demesne  of  the  said 
parsonage,  tog*>'her  with  common  paaturage  for  his  swine 
in  such  places  as  the  rector  of  the  said  church  used  that 
privil^e;  that  he  should  receive  from  the  prior  and  con- 
vent of  Bath  one  quarter  of  bretid-corn  yearly,  and  have  all 
the  altarage,  and  all  small  tithes  of  beans  and  other  blade 
growing  in  the  cottage  enclosures  and  cultivated  curtilages 
throughout  the  parish ;  that  the  religious  aforesaid  and 
their  successors,  as  rectors  of  the  said  church,  sl/juld  have 
all  the  arable  land,  with  a  park  belonging  to  the  land,  (the 
acre  above  mentioned  only  excepted,)  and  receive  all 
great  tithes,  as  well  of  corn  as  of  hay  ;  the  said  religious  to 
sustain  all  burdens,  ordinary  and  extraordinary,  incHimbent 
on  the  church  as  rectors  thereof  The  prior  of  Bath  had  a 
yearly  pension  out  of  the  vican^e  oiAs.—Collvisan's  Hist- 
qf  SoTTiersetshire,  vol.  iii.  pp.  341 — 347. 


On  as  I  journey  through  the  vale  of  years, 
By  hopes  enUven'd,  or  depress'd  by  fears, 
Allow  me.  Memory,  in  thy  treasured  store, 
To  view  the  days  that  will  return  no  more. 
And  yes  !  before  thine  imtellectual  ray 
The  clouds  of  mental  darkness  melt  awtiy! 
As  when,  at  earliest  day's  awakening  dawn, 
The  hovering  mists  obscure  the  dewy  lawn, 
O'er  all  the  landscape  spread  their  influenca 

chill. 
Hang  o'er  the  vale  and  wood,  and  hide  the  hill; 
Anon,  slow-rising,  comes  the  orb  of  day ; 
Slow  fade  the  shadowy  mists  and  roll  away; 


THE  RETROSPECT.  235 

The  prospect  opens  on  the  traveller's  sight, 
And  hills  and  vales  and  woods  reflect  the  living 
light. 

0  ihou,  the  mistress  of  my  future  days, 
Accept  thy  minstrel's  retrospective  lays; 
To  whom  the  minstrel  and  the  lyre  belong, 
Accept,  my  Edith,  Memory's  pensive  song; 
Of  long-past  days  I  sing,  ere  yet  I  knew 
Or  thought  and  grief,  or  happiness  and  you ; 
Ere  yet  my  infant  heart  had  learnt  to  prove 
The  cares  of  life,  the  hopes  and  fears  of  love. 

Corston,  twelve  years  in  various  fortunes  fled 
Have  past  with  restless  progress  o'er  my  head, 
Since  in  thy  vale,  beneath  the  master's  rule, 

1  dwelt  an  inmate  of  the  village  school. 
Yet  still  will  Memory's  busy  eye  retrace 
Each  little  vestige  of  ihe  well-known  place; 
Each  wonted  haunt  and  sce..a  of  youthful  joy, 
Where  merriment  has  cheered   the  careless 

boy ; 
Well-pleased  will  fancy  still  the  spot  survey 
Where  once  he  triumph' d  in  the  boyish  play, 
Without  one  care  where  every  morn  he  rose, 
Wherp  every  evening  sunk  to  calm  repose. 

Large  was  the  house,  though  fallen  in  course, 

of  fate. 
From  its  old  grandeur  and  mane  rial  state. 
Jjord  of  the  manor,  here  the  jovial  Squire 
Once  call'd  hb  tenants  round  the  crackling  fire; 


236  THE   RETROSPECT 

Here  while  the  glow  of  joy  suifused  his  face, 
He  told  his  ancient  exploits  in  the  chase, 
And,  proud  his  rival  sportsmen  to  surpass, 
He  lit  again  the  pipe,  and  fiU'd  again  the  glass. 

But  now  no  more  was  heard  at  early  mom 
The  echoing  clangor  of  the  huntsman's  horn  ; 
No  more  the  eager  hounds  with  deepening  cry 
Leap'd  round  him  as  they  knew  their  pastime 

nigh  ; 
The  Squire  no  more  obey'd  the  morning  call, 
Nor   favorite  spaniels  fill'd  the  sportsman's 

hall; 
For  he,  the  last  descendant  of  his  race, 
Slept  with  his  fathers,  and  forgot  the  chas« 
There  now  in  petty  empire  o'er  the  school 
The  mighty  Master  held  despotic  rule  ; 
Trembling  in  silence  all  his  deeds  we  saw, 
His  look  a  mandate,  and  his  word  a  lawj 
Severe  his  voice,  severe  and  stern  his  mien. 
And  wondrous  strict  he  was  and  wondrous  wise 

I  ween. 

Even  now  through  many  a  long,  long  year  I 

trace 
The  hour  when  first  with  awe  I  view'd  his 

face ; 
Even  now  recall  my  entrance  at  the  dome,— 
'Twas  the  first  day  I  ever  left  my  home ! 
Years  intervening  have  not  worn  away 
The  deep  remembrance  of  that  wretched  day, 
Nor  taught  me  to  forget  my  earliest  fears, 


THE  RETfi»SPBCT. 


237 


A  mother's  fondness,  and  a  mothei  s  tears ; 
"When  close  she  press' d  me  to  her  sorrowing 

heart, 
As  loath  as  even  I  myself  to  part ; 
And  I,  as  I  beheld  her  sorrows  flow, 
With  painful  effort  hid  my  inward  woe. 

But  time  to  youthful  troubles  brings  relief, 
And  each  new  object  weans  the  child  from 

grief. 
Like  April  showers  the  tears  of  youth  descend; 
Sudden  they  fall,  and  suddenly  they  end, 
And  fresher  pleasure   cheers   the    foUowmg 

hour, 
48  brighter  shines  the  sun  after  the  April  shower. 

Methinks  even  now  the  interview  I  see. 
The  Mistress's  glad  smile,  the  Master's  glee ; 
Much  of  my  future  happiness  they  said, 
Much  of  the  easy  life  the  scholars  led, 
Of  spacious  play-ground  and  of  wholesome  air, 
The  best  instruction  and  the  tenderest  care ; 
And  when  I  followed  to  the  garden-door 
My  father,  till  through  tears  1  saw  no  niore,    • 
How  civiiiy  ihey  soothed  my  parting  pain! 
\nd  never  did  they  speak  so  civilly  again. 

Why  loves  the  soul  on  earlier  years  to  dwell. 
When  Memory  spreads  around  her  saddening 

spell 
When  disconieni,  wiih  sullen  gloom  o'ercast, 
Turns  from  the  present,  and  prefers  the  past  I 


238  THE    RETROSFECT. 

Why  calls  reflection  to  my  pensive  view 
Each  trifling  act  of  infancy  anew, 
Each  trifling  act  with  pleasure  pondering  o'er, 
Even  at  the  time  when  trifles  please  no  moref 
Yet  is  remembrance  sweet,  thoUi,^h  well  I  know 
The  days  of  childhood  are  but  days  of  woe  ; 
Some  rude  restraint,  some  petty  tyrant  soHra 
What   else   should  be  our  sweetest,  blithest 

hours  ; 
Yet  is  it  sweet  to  call  those  hours  to  mind,— 
Those  easy  hours  forever  left  behind ; 
Ere  care  began  the  spirit  to  oppress. 
When  ignorance  itself  was  happiness. 

Such  was  my  state  in  those  remember'd  years, 
When  two  small  acres  bounded  all  my  fears ; 
And  therefore  still  with  pleasure,  I  recall 
The    tapestried    school,  t^e  bright,    brown- 
boarded  hall, 
The  murmuring  brook,  that  every   morning 

saw 
The  due  observance  of  the  cleanly  law ; 
The  walnuts,  where,  when  favor  would  allow. 
Full   oft  I  wont  to  search  each  well-strip'd 

bough ; 
The  crab-tree,  which  supplied  a  secret  hoard 
With  roasted  crabs  to  deck  the  wintry  board ; 
These  trifling  objects  then  my  heart  possessed, 
These  trifling  objects  still  remain  impress'd  ; 
So  when  with  unskill'd  hand  some  idle  hind 
Carves  his  rude  name  within  a  sapling's  rindj 
In  after  years  the  ;  easant  lives  to  see 


THE   BETROSPECT.  239  j 

The  expanding  letters  grow  as  grows  the  tree  ; 
Though  every  waiter's  desolating  sway 
Shake  the  hoarse  grove  and  sweep  the  leaves 

away, 
That  rude  inscription  unefFaced  will  last, 
Unalter'd  by  the  storm  or  wintry  blast. 

Oh,  while  well  pleased  the  letter'd  traveller 

roams 
Among  old  temples,  palaces,  and  domes, 
Strays  with  the  Arab  o'er  the  wreck  of  time 
Where  erst  Palmyra's  towers  arose  sublime, 
Or  marks  the  lazy  Turk's  lethargic  pride, 
And  Grecian  slavery  on  Illyssus'  side. 
Oh,  be  it  mine,  aloof  from  public  strife, 
To  mark  the  changes  of  domestic  life, 
The  alter'd  scenes  where  once  I  bore  a  part, 
Where   every  change  of  fortune  strikes  the 

heart. 
As  when  the  merry  bells  with  echoing  sound 
Proclaim  the  news  of  victory  around, 
Rejoicing  patriots  run  the  news  to  spread 
Of  glorious  conquest  and  of  thousands  dead, 
All  join  the  loud  huzza  with  eager  breath, 
And  triumph  in  the  tale  of  blood  and  death; 
But  if  extended  on  the  battle-plain. 
Cut  off  in  conquest  some  dear  friend  be  slain, 
Affection  then  will  fill  the  sorrowing  eye. 
And  suffering  N  ature  grieve  that  one  should 

die. 

Cold  was  the  morn,  anc  bleak  the  wintry  blasl 
Blew  o'er  the  meadow,  when  I  saw  thee  last 


240  THE   RETROSPECT. 

My  bosom  bounded  as  I  wandered  round, 
With  silent  step,  the  long-remember'd  ground, 
Where  I  had  loiter' d  out  so  many  an  hour, 
Chased  the  gay  butterfly,  and  cuU'd  the  flower 
Sought  the  swift  arrow's  erring  course  to  trace, 
Or  with  mine  equals  vied  amid  the  chase. 
I  saw  the  church  where  I  had  slept  away 
The  tedious  service  of  the  summer  day ; 
Or,  hearing  sadly  all  the  preacher  told, 
In  winter  waked  and  shiver' d  with  the  cold. 
Oft  have  my  footsteps  roam'd  the  sacred  ground 
Where  heroes,  kings,  and  poets  sleep  around; 
Oft  traced  the  mouldering  castle's  ivied  wall, 
Or  aged  convent  tottering  to  its  fall ; 
Yet  never  had  my  bosom  felt  such  pain, 
As,  Corston,  when  I  saw  thy  scenes  again; 
For  many  a  long-lost  pleasure  came  to  view, 
For  many  a  long-past  sorrow  rose  anew  ; 
Where  whilom  all  were  friends  I  stood  alone, 
Unknowing  all  I  saw,  of  all  I  saw  unknown. 

There,  where  my  little  hands  were  wont  to 

roar 
With  pride  the  earliest  salad  of  the  year ; 
Where  never  idle  weed'  to  spring  was  seen. 
Rank  thorns  and  nettles  rear'd  their  heads  ob 

scene. 
Still  all  around  and  sad,  I  saw  no  more 
The  playful  group,  nor  heard  the  playful  roar; 
There  echoed  round  no  shout  of  mirth  and  glee* 
It  seem'd  as  though  the  world  were  changed 

Uke  me ! 


L- 


THE  REIROSPECT.  241 

»5nough  !   it  boots  not  on  the  paa.  to  dwell,— 
Fair  scene  of  other  years,  a  long  farewell ! 
Rouse  up,  my  soul !  it  boots  not  to  repine ; 
Rouse  up!  for  worthier  feelings  should  be  thine; 
Thy  path  is  plain  end  straight ,^that  light  ia 

given,— 
Onward  in  faith,— end  leave  the  rest  to  Heaveik 


16 


Si  INLETS, 


CORSTOV. 

A.S  thus  I  stanG  oeside  the  murmuring  stream, 
And  watch  its  current,  memor)'  here  portrays 
Scenes  faintly  form'd  of  half- forgot  ten  days, 
Like  far-oflf  wooulands   by  the   moon's  bright 

beam 
Dimly  descried,  but  lovely,     i  have  worn 
Amid  these  haunts  the  heavy  hours  away. 
When  childhood  idled  through  the  Sabbath  day  ; 
Risen  to  my  tasks  at  winter's  earliest  morn  ; 
And  when  the  summer  twilight  darken' d  herei 
Thinking  of  home,  and  all  of  heart  forlorn, 
Have  sigh'd  and  shed  in  secret  many  a  tear. 
Dream-like  ahd  indistinct  those  days  appear, 
As  the  faint  sounds  of  this  low  brooklet,  borne 
Upon  the  breeze  reacii  fitfully  the  ear. 

1794. 
242 


SONNETS  243 

2. 
Beware  a  speedy  friend,  the  Arabian  said, 
And  wisely  was  it  hie  advised  distrust : 
The  flower  that  blossoms  earliest  fades  the  first. 
Look  at  yon  Oak  that  lifts  its  stately  he£id, 
And  daUies  with  the  autumnal  storm,  whose  rage 
Tempests  the  great  sea- waves  ;  slowly  it  rose, 
Slowlyits  strength  increased  through  many  an  age 
And  timidly  did  its  light  leaves  disclose, 
As  doubtful  of  ihe  spring,  iheir  pales:  green. 
They  to  the  summer  cautiously  expand, 
And  by  the  warmer  sun  and  season  bland 
Matured,  their  foliage  in  the  grove  is  seen, 
When  the  bare  forest  by  the  wintry  blast 
Is  swept,  still  lingering  on  the  boughs  the  last. 
1798 


I  MARVEL  not,  O  Sun  I  that  unto  tnee 

In  adoration  man  should  bow  the  knee. 

And  pour  his  prayers  of  mingled  awe  and  love ; 

For  like  a  God  thou  art,  and  on  thy  way 

Of  glory  sheddest,  with  benignant  ray, 

Beauty  and  life,  and  joyance  from  above 

No  longer  let-these  mists  thy  radiance  shroud, 

These  cold,  raw  mists,  that  chill  the  comfortless 

aay, 
But  shed  thy  splendor  through  the  opening  cloud, 
And  cheer  the  earth  once  more,     The  languid 

flowers 


(T-' 


244  son:»ets. 

Lie  scentless,  beaten  down  with  heavy  rain  ; 
i  Earth  asks  thy  presence,  saturate  with  showers  ^ 

j  O  Lord  of  Light !  put  forth  thy  beams  again. 

For  iamp  and  cheerless  are  the  gloomy  houra 
Westburyy  1798. 


A  WRINKLED,  crabbed  man  they  picture  thee, 
Old  Winter,  with  a  rugged  beard  as  gray 
As  the  long  moss  upon  the  apple-tree  ; 
Blue-lipt,  an  ice-drop  at  thy  sharp,  blue  nose, 
Close  muflSed  up,  and  on  thy  dreary  way, 
Plodding  alone  through  sleet  and  drifting  snows. 
They  should  have  drawn  thee  by  the  high-heapt 
i  hearth, 

;  Old  Winter !  seated  in  thy  great  arm'd  ckair, 

I  Watching  the  children  at  their  Christmas  mirth ; 

^  Or  circled  by  them  as  thy  lips  declare 

I  Some  merry  jest,  or  tale  of  murder  dire, 

j  Or  troubled  spirit  that  disturbs  the  night, 

^  Pausing  at  times  to  rouse  the  mouldering  fire, 

I  Or  taste  the  old  October  brown  and  bright. 

1      ,  Westbury,  1799. 


Stately  yon  vessel  sails  adown  the  tide. 
To  some  far  distant  land  adventurous  bound  , 


SONNETS.  245 

The  sailors'  busy  cries  from  side  to  side. 
Pealing  among  the  echoing  rocks,  resound  : 
A  patient,  thoughtless,  much-enduring  bar.dy 
Joyful  they  enter  on  their  ocean  way, 
With  shouts  exulting  leave  their  native  .and, 
And  know  no  care  beyond  the  present  day. 
But  is  there  no  poor  mourner  left  behind, 
Who  sorrows  for  a  child  or  husband  there  ? 
Who  at  the  howling  of  the  midnight  wind 
Will  wake  and  tremble  in  her  boding  prayer  f 
So  may  her  voice  be  heard,  and  Heaven  be  kind! 
Go,  gallant  Ship,  and  be  thy  fortune  fair; 
Weaibury,  1799. 


6. 
O  God  !  have  m  ircy  in  this  dreadful  hour 
On  the  poor  mariner !  in  comfort  here 
Safe  shelter'd  as  I  am,  I  almost  fear 
The  b.ast  that  rages  with  resistless  power. 
What  were  it  now  to  toss  upon  the  waves. 
The  madden'd  waves,  and  know  no  succor  near 
The  howling  of  the  storm  alone  to  hear, 
And  the  wild  sea  that  to  the  tempest  raves  • 
To  gaze  amid  the  horrors  of  the  night. 
And  only  see  the  billow's  gleaming  light; 
Then  in  the  dread  of  death  to  think  of  her 
Who,  as  she  listens  sleepless  to  the  gale. 
Puts  up  a  silent  prayer  and  waxes  pale  ?— 
O  God  !  have  mercy  on  the  mariner ! 
Westhury,  1799 


246  80NNBT9. 

7. 

She  conies  majes  Ac  with  her  swelling  sails 
The  gallant  Ship  ;  along  her  watery  way 
Homeward  she  drives  before  the  favoring  gales 
Now  flirting  at  their  length  the  streamers  play. 
And  now  they  ripple  with  the  ruffling  breeze. 
Hark  to  the  sailors'  shouts  !  the  rocks  rebound, 
Thundering  in  echoes  to  the  joyful  sound. 
Long  have  they  voyaged  o'er  the  distant  seas ; 
And  what  a  heart-delight  they  feel  at  last, 
So  many  toils,  so  many  dangers  past, 
To  view  the  port  desired,  he  only  knows 
Who  on  the  stormy  deep  for  many  a  day 
Hath  tost,  aweary  of  his  watery  way, 
And  watch'd,  allanxiouS;  ever}  wind  thatblowf. 
fVesthuru,  1799. 


RExMEMBRANCE. 


The  remembrance  of  Youth  is  a  sigb^— ^AUi 


Man  hath  a  weary  pilgrimage 
As  through  the  world  he  vifends; 
On  every  stage  from  youth  to  age 

Still  discontent  attends ; 
With  heaviness  he  casts  his  eye 

Upon  the  road  before, 
And  still  remembers  with  a  sigh 
The  days  that  are  no  more. 

To  school  the  little  exile  goes. 
Torn  from  his  mother's  arms,— 
What  then  shall  soothe  his  earliest  woes, 

When  novelty  hath  lost  Us  charms  ? 
Condemn' d  to  suffer  through  the  day 
Restraints  which  no  rewards  repay, 
And  cares  where  love  has  no  concern, 
Hope  lengthens  as  she  counts  the  hours 
Before  his  wish'd  return. 

247 


==s 


I 

248  REMEMBRANCE. 

From  hard  control  and  tyrant  rules, 
The  unfeeling  discipline  of  schools, 

In  thought  he  loves  to  roam, 
And  tears  will  struggle  in  his  eye 
While  he  remembers  with  a  sigh 

The  comforts  of  his  home. 

Vouth  comes ;  the  toils  and  cares  of  life 

Torment  the  restless  mind  ; 
Where  shall  the  tired  and  harass'd  heart 

Its  consolation  find  ? 
Then  is  not  Youth,  as  Fancy  tells, 

Life's  summer  prime  of  joy  ? 
Ah  no  I  for  hopes  too  long  delay'd 
And  feelings  blasted  or  betray'd. 

Its  fabled  bUss  destroy  ; 
And  Youth  remembers  with  a  sigh 
The  careless  days  of  Infancy. 

Maturer  Manhood  now  arrives, 

And  other  thoughts  come  on. 
But  with  the  baseless  hopes  of  Youth 

Its  generous  warmth  is  gone  ; 
Cold  calculating  cares  succeed, 
The  timid  thought,  the  wary  deed, 

The  dull  realities  of  truth  ;  , 

Back  on  the  past  he  turns  his  eye,  | 

Remembering  with  an  envious  sigh  J 

The  happy  dreams  of  Youth.  | 

So  reaches  he  the  latter  stage  I 

Of  this  our  mortal  pilgimage. 


XKMEMBRAMCE.  219 

With  feeble  step  and  slow  ; 

New  ills  that  latter  stage  await, 
And  old  Experience  learns  too  late 

That  all  is  vanity  below. 
Life'  s  vain  delusions  are  gone  by  ; 

Its  idle  hopes  are  o'er ; 
Yet  Age  remembers  with  a  sigh 

The  days  that  are  no  more. 

Westbury,  1796. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 


DACTYLICS. 

Weary  way -wanderer,  languid  and  sick  at  heart 
Travelling  painfully  over  the  rugged  road, 
Wild-visaged  Wanderer  !  God  help  thee,  wretch, 
ed  one  ! 

Sorely  thy  little  one  drags  by  thee  barefooted  ; 
Cold  is  the  baby  that  hangs  at  thy  bending  back, 
Meagre,  and  livid,  and  screaming  for  niiserv. 

*Woe-begone  mother,  half  anger,  half  agony, 
As  over  ihy  shoulder  thou  lookest  to  hush  the 

babe. 
Bleakly  the  blinding  snow  heats  in  iny  haggard 
face. 

Ne'er   will   thy  husband   return   from  the  war 

again, 
Cold  is  thy  heart,  and  as  frozen  as  Charity  I 
Cold  are  thy  children. — Now  God  be  thy  com 
forter! 
Bristol,  1795. 

♦  This  stanza  was  written  by  S.  T.  Coleridqb. 

230 


THE    WIDOW. 


SAPPHICS. 


Cold  was  the  night-wind,  drifting  fast  the  snow 

fell, 
Wide  were  the  downs,  and  shelterless  and  naked> 
When  a  poor  Wanderer  struggled  on  her  journey, 
Weary  and  way-sore. 

Drear  were  the  downs,  more  dreary  her  reflec. 

tions ; 
Cold  was  the  night-wind,  colder  was  her  bosom; 
She  had  no  home,  the  world  was  all  before  her, 
She  had  no  shelter. 

Fast  o'er  the  heath  a  chariot  rattled  by  her, 
"  Pity  me  !"  feebly  cried  the  lonely  wanderer; 
"  Pity  me  strangers  !  lest  with  cold  and  hunger 
Here  I  should  perish. 

"  Once  I  had  friends, — though  now  by  all  for- 

saken ! 
Once  I  had  parents, — they  are  now  in  heaven! 

251 


252  THE    WIDOW. 

"  I  had  a  home  once — I  had  once  a  husband—- 
Pity  me,  strangers ! 

"  I  had  a  home  once — I  had  once  a  husband— 
I  am  a  widow,  poor  and  broken-hearted  I" 
Loud  blew  the  wind ;  unheard  was  her  complain- 
ing ; 
On  drove  the  chariot 

Then  on  the  snow  she  laid  her  down  to  rest  her; 
She  heard  a  horseman  :  '*  Pity  me  '"  she  groan'd 

out ; 
Loud  was  the  wind  ;  unheard  was  her  complain- 
ing ; 

On  went  the  horseman. 

Worn  out  with  anguish,  toil,  and  cold,  and  hun- 
ger, 
Down  sunk  the  Wanderer  ;  sleep  had  seized  her 

senses  ; 
There  did  the  traveller  find  her  in  the  morning ; 
God  had  released  her, 

Bristol,  1795. 


THE  CHAPEL  BELL. 


Lo  I,  the  man  who  from  the  Muse  did  ask 
Her  deepest  notes   to  swell  the  Patriot'^ 
meeds, 
Am  now  enforced,  a  far  unfitter  task. 
For  cap  and  gown  to  leave  my  minstrel  weeds , 

For  yon  dull  tone,  that  tinkles  on  the  air, 
Bids  me  lay  by  the  lyre  and  go  to  morning  prayer. 

O  how  I  hate  the  sound  !  it  is  the  knell 

That  still  a  requiem  tolls  to  Comfort's  hour; 
And  loath  am  I,  at  Superstition's  bell, 

To  quit  or  Morpheus'  or  the  Muse's  bower : 
Better  to  lie  and  doze,  than  gape  amain, 
Hearing  still   mumbled  o'er  the  same  eternal 
strain. 

Thou  tedious  herald  of  more  tedious  prayers, 
Say,  dost  thou  ever  summon  from  his  rest 
One  being  wakening  to  religious  cares  ? 

Or  rouse  one  pious  transport  in  the  breast  f 
Or  rather,  do  not  all  reluctant  creep 
To  Unger  out  the  time  in  hstlessness  or  sleep  t 

253 


254  THE    CHAPEL    BELL. 

I  love  the  bell  that  calls  the  poor  to  pray, 
Chiming   from  village  church   its  cheerful 
sound, 
When  the  sun  smiles  on  Labor's  holy-day, 

And  all  the  rustic  train  are  gather' d  round 
Each  deftly  dizen'd  in  his  Sunday's  best, 
And  pleased  to  hail  the  day  of  piety  and  rest. 

And  when,  dim  shadowing  o'er  the  face  of  day, 
The  mantling  mists  of  even-tide  rise  slow, 

As  through  the  forest  gloom  I  wend  my  way, 
The  minster  curfew's  sullen  voice  I  know, 

And  pause,  and  love  its  solemn  toll  to  hear. 
As  nade  by  distance  soft  it  dies  upon  the  ear. 

Nor  with  an  idle  nor  unwilling  ear 

Do  I  receive  the  early  passing-bell; 
For,  sick  at  heart  with  many  a  secret  care. 

When  I  lie  hstening  to  the  dead  man's  knell, 
I  think  tha*  in  the  grave  all  sorrows  cease. 
And  would  full  fain  rechne  my  head  and  be  at 
peace. 

But  thou,  memorial  of  monastic  gall ! 

What  fancy  sad  or  lightsome  hast  thou  given! 
Thy  vision-scaring  sounds  alone  recall 

The  prayer   that   trembles  on  a  yawn  to 
heaven, 
The  snuffling,  snaffling  Fellow's  nasal  tone, 
A.nd  Romish  rites  retain' d,  though  Romish  faith 
be  flown. 

Oxford,  1793. 


WRITTEW 

ON  SUNDAY  MORNING. 


Go  thou  and  seek  the  House  of  Prayei'. 

I  to  the  woodlands  wend,  and  there 
In  lovely  Nature  see  the  God  of  Love. 

The  swelling  organ's  peal 

Wakes  not  my  soul  to  zeal, 
Like  the  sweet  nriusic  of  the  vernal  grove. 
The  gorgeous  altar  and  the  mystic  vest 
Excite  not  such  devotion  in  my  breast, 

As  where  the  noon-tide  beam, 

Flash' d  from  some  broken  stream, 
Vibrates  on  the  dazzled  sight ; 

Or  where  the  cloud-suspended  rain 

Sweeps  in  shadows  o'er  the  plain  ; 
Or  when,  reclining  on  the  cliff's  huge  height, 
I  mark  the  billows  burst  in  silver  light. 

Go  thou  and  seek  the  House  of  Prayer ! 
I  to  the  Woodlands  shall  repair. 
Feed  with  all  Nature's  charms  mine  eves, 
And  hear  all  Nature's  melodies. 

255 


256  WRITTEN  ON  SCNDAY  MORNINa. 

The  primrose  bank  will  there  disper.se 
Faint  fragrance  to  the  awaken'd  sense  ; 
The  morning  beams  that  Hfe  and  joy  impart 
Will  with  their  influence  warm  my  heart, 
And  the  full  tear  that  down  my  cheek  will 

steal, 
Will  speak  the  prayer  of  praise  I  feel. 

Go  thou  and  seek  the  House  of  Prayer ! 
I  to  the  Woodlands  bend  my  way, 

And  meet  Religion  there  ! 
She  needs  not  haunt  the  high-arch'd  dome  to 

pray; 
Where  storied  windows  dim  the  doubtful  day 
At  liberty  she  loves  to  rove, 

Wide  o'er  the  healthy  hill  or  cowslip'd  dale 
Or  seek  the  shelter  of  the  embowering  grove, 

Or  with  the  streamlet  wind  along  the  vale. 
Sweet  are  these  scenes  to  her  ;  and  when  th« 

Night 
Pours  in  the  North  her  silver  streams  of  light 
She  woos  reflection  in  the  silent  gloom, 
And  ponders  on  the  world  to  come. 

Bristol  1795. 


YOUTH  AND  AJE, 


With  cheerful  8tep  the  traveller 

Pursues  his  early  way, 
When  first  the  dimly -dawning  ea»' 

Reveals  the  rising  day. 

He  bounds  along  his  craggy  road 
He  hastens  up  the  height. 

And  all  he  sees  and  all  he  hears 
Administer  delight. 

And  if  the  mist,  retiring  slow, 
Roll  round  its  wavy  white, 

He  thinks  the  morning  vapors  hide 
Some  beauty  from  his  sight. 

But  when  behind  thft  western  clouds 

Departs  the  fading  day, 
How  wearily  the  traveller 

Purpuea  his  evening  way ! 

17  257 


25S  YOUTH    AND   AOk 

Sorely  along  the  craggy  road 
His  painful  footsteps  creep, 

And  slow,  with  many  a  feeble  pause. 
He  labors  up  the  steep. 

And  if  the  mists  of  nignt  ciose  round. 

They  fill  his  soul  with  fear; 
He  dreads  some  unseen  precipice. 

Some  hidden  danger  near. 

So  cheerfully  does  youth  begm 
Life's  pleasant  morning  stage; 

Alas  !  the  evening  traveller  feele 
The  fears  of  wary  age  ! 

Westbury,  Hm 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  COMFORTS. 

AND    HOW   HE   GAINED    THEM. 


You  are  old,  Father  William,  the  young  man 
cried ; 

The  few  locks  which  are  left  you  are  gray ; 
You  are  hale,  Father  Wilham,  a  hearty  old  man, 

Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  Father  William  rep/lied; 

I  remember'd  that  youth  would  fly  fast, 
And  abused  not  my  health  and  my  vigor  at  first, 

That  I  never  might  need  them  at  last. 

You  are  old,  Father  William,  the  young  man 
cried. 

And  pleasures  with  youth  pass  away ; 
And  yet  you  lament  not  the  days  that  are  gone 

Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  Father  William  replied, 
I  remcraber'd  that  youth  could  not  last ; 

259 


260  THE   OLD   MAN  S   COMFORTS. 

I  thought  of  the  future,  whatever  J  did, 
That  I  never  might  grieve  for  the  past. 

You  are  old,  Father  William,  the  young  max 
cried. 
And  life  must  be  hastening  away  ; 
Vou  are  cheerful,  and  love  to  converse  upon 
death ; 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

I  am  cheerful,  young  man,  Father  William  Re- 
plied ; 

Let  the  cause  thy  attention  engage  ; 
In  the  days  of  my  youth  I  remember'd  my  God  ! 

And  He  hath  not  forgotten  my  age. 

freslbt^rtf,  1199 


T]IE  CCMPLAINTS  OF  THE  POOR 


And  wherefore  do  the  Poor  complain  ? 

The  Rich  Man  ask'd  of  me ; — 
Come  walk  abroad  wiih  me,  I  said, 

And,  I  will  answer  ihee. 

'Twas  evening,  and  the  frozen  streets 

Were  cheerless  to  behold, 
And  we  were  wrapp'd  and  coated  well, 

And  yet  we  were  a-cold. 

We  met  an  old,  bare-headed  man  ; 

His  locks  were  thin  and  white ; 
I  ask'd  him  what  he  did  abroad 

In  that  cold  winter's  night. 

The  cold  was  keen  indeed,  he  said, 
But  at  home  no  fire  had  he, 

And  therefore  he  had  come  abroad 
To  ask  for  charity. 

We  met  a  young,  bare-footed  child, 
And  she  begg'd  loud  and  bold  ; 

261 


262  THE   COMPLAINTS   OF   THE    POOR 

I  ask'd  her  what  she  did  abroad 
When  the  wind  it  blew  so  cold. 

She  said  her  father  was  at  home, 
And  he  lay  sick  a-bed ; 

And  therefore  was  it  she  was  sent 
Abroad  to  beg  for  bread. 

We  saw  a  woman  sittmg  down 

Upon  a  stone  to  rest ; 
She  had  a  baby  at  her  back, 

And  another  at  her  breast. 


I  ask'd  her  why  she  loiter'd  there 
When  the  night-wind  was  so  chill ; 

She  turn'd  her  head  and  bade  the  child 
That  scream'd  behind,  be  still;  — 


Then  told  us  that  her  husband  served,  -jj 

A  soldier,  far  away,  j 

And  therefore  to  her  parish  she  i' 
Was  begging  back  her  way. 

ji  We  met  a  girl ;  her  dress  was  loose,  ji 

Ij  And  sunken  was  her  eye,  jj 

h  Who  with  a  wanton's  hollow  voice  '' 
ji                          Address'd  the  passers-by. 

:  I  ask'd  her  what  there  was  in  guilt 

That  could  her  heart  allure 
To  shame,  disease,  and  late  remorse: 
ii  She  answer'd,  she  was  poor 


THE    COMPLAINTS   OF    THE   POOR.  26o 

I  warn'd  me  to  the  Rich  Man  then, 

For  silently  stood  he, — 
You  ask'd  me  why  the  poor  complain, 

And  these  have  answer' d  thee ! 

179& 


THE   CATARACT    OF  LODORE. 

IX8CRIBED  IN  RHYMES  FOR  THE  NURSKKT. 


"  How  does  the  Water  { 

Come  down  at  Lodore?"  ■ 

My  little  boy  ask'd  me  i 

Thus,  once  on  a  time  ! 
And  moreover  he  task'd  me  i 

To  Jell  him  in  rhyme.  j 

Anon  at  the  word, 
There  first  came  one  daughter, 

And  then  came  another,  i 

To  second  and  third 
The  request  of  their  brother, 
And  to  hear  how  the  water 

Comes  down  at  Lodore, 

With  its  rush  and  its  roar, 

As  many  a  time  ! 

They  had  seen  it  before. 

So  I  told  them  in  rhyme, 

For  of  rhymes  I  had  store  ; 

And  'twas  in  my  vocation  i 

For  their  recreation  ' 

264 


THE   CATARACT   OF   lODORE.  265 

That  so  I  should  sing  ; 
Because  I  was  Laureate 
To  them  and  the  King. 

From  its  sources  which  well 
In  the  Tarn  on  the  fell ; 
From  its  fountains 
In  the  mountains. 
Its  rills  and  its  gills; 
Through  moss  and  through  brake. 
It  runs  and  it  creeps 
For  awhile,  till  it  sleeps 
In  its  own  little  Lake. 
And  thence  at  departing. 
Awakening  and  starting, 
It  runs  through  the  reeds, 
And  away  it  proceeds. 
Through  meadow  and  glade. 

In  sun  and  in  shade, 
And  through  the  wood-shelter, 
Among  crags  in  its  flurry, 
Helter-skelter, 
Hurry-scurry. 
Here  it  comes  sparkling. 
And  there  it  lies  darkUng ; 
Now  smoking  and  frothing 
Its  tumult  and  wrath  in, 
Till  in  this  rapid  race 
On  which  it  is  bent. 
It  reaches  the  place 
Of  its  steep  descent 


266  THE   CAIABACT   OF    LODORE. 

The  Cataract  strong 
Then  plunges  along, 
Striking  and  raging 
As  if  a  war  waging 
Its  caverns  and  rocks  among  , 
Rising  and  leaping, 
Sinking  and  creeping, 
Swelling  and  sweeping, 
Showering  and  springing, 
Flying  and  flinging, 
"Writhing  and  ringing, 
Eddying  and  whisking, 
Spouting  and  frisking, 
Turning  and  twisting, 
Around  and  around 
With  endless  rebound : 
Smiting  and  fighting, 
A  sight  to  delight  in  ; 
Confounding,  astounding, 
Dizzying  and  deafening  the  ear  with  its  sound 

Collecting,  projecting, 
Receding  and  speeding. 
And  shocking  and  rocking, 
And  darting  and  parting, 
And  threading  and  spreading, 
And  whizzing  and  hissing, 
And  dripping  and  skipping, 
And  hitting  and  splitting. 
And  shining  and  twining. 
And  ratthng  and  battling, 
And  shaking  and  quaking, 


THE   CATARACT   OF   LODORE.  267 

And  pouring  and  roaring, 
And  waving  and  raving, 
And  tossing  and  crossing. 
And  flowing  and  going, 
And  running  and  stunning. 
And  foaming  and  roaming. 
And  dinning  and  spinning. 
And  dropping  and  hopping, 
And  working  and  jerking, 
And  guggling  and  struggling, 
And  heaving  and  cleaving, 
And  moaning  and  groaning ; 

And  glittering  and  frittering. 
And  gathering  and  feathering. 
And  whitening  and  brightening, 
And  quivering  and  shivering. 
And  hurrying  and  skurrying. 
Ana  ihundermg  and  floundering ; 

Dividing  and  gliding  and  sliding. 

And  faUing  and  brawling  and  sprawling, 

And  driving  and  riving  and  striving, 

And  sprinkling  and  twinkling  and  wrinkling, 

And  sounding  and  bounding  and  rounding, 

And  bubbling  and  troubling  and  doubhng, 

And  grumbling  and  rumbling  and  tumbling, 

And  clattering  and  battering  and  shattering  ; 

Retreating  and  beating  and  meetmg  and  sheetmg, 
Delaying  and  straying  and  playing  and  spraying, 
Adv  ancing  and prancmg  and  glancmg  and  dancing, 


268  THE   CATARACT   OF   LODORE. 

Recoiling,  turmoiling  and  toiling  and  boiling, 

And  gleaming  and  streaming  and  steaming  and 
beaming, 

And  rushing  and  flushing  and  brushing  and  gush- 
ing, 

And  flapping  and  rapping  and  clapping  and  slap- 
ping, 

And  curling  and  whirling  and  purling  and  twirl- 
ing, 

And  thumping  and  plumping  and  bumping  and 
jumping. 

And  dashing  and  flashing  and  splashing  and  clash- 
ing. 

And  so  never  ending,  but  always  descending, 

Sounds  and  motions  forever  and  ever  are  blend- 
ing, 

All  at  once  and  all  o'er,  with  a  mighty  uproar, 

And  this  way  the  Water  comes  dcwn  at  Lodore. 

Ketwick,  1820. 


^ 


THE  MARCH  TO  MOSCOW. 


1. 

Tna  Emperor  Nap  he  would  set  off 
On  a  summer  excursion  to  Moscow  .• 
The  fields  were  green,  and  the  sky  was  alue, 
Morbleul  Parbleu! 
What  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Moscow  ! 

2. 

Four  hundred  thousand  men  and  more 

Must  go  with  him  to  Moscow : 

There  were  Marshals  by  the  dozen, 

And  Dukes  by  the  score ; 

Princes  a  few,  and  Kings  one  or  two ; 

While  the  fields  are  so  green,  and  the  sky  so  blao, 

Morbleu!  Parbleu! 

What  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Moscow  ! 

3. 

There  was  Junot  and  Augereau, 
Heigh-ho  for  Moscow  ! 

269 


270  THE   MARCH    TO    MOSCOW. 

Dombrowsky  and  Poniatowsky, 
Marshal  Ney,  lack-a-day  ! 
General  Rapp,  and  the  Emperor  Nap; 
Nothing  would  do, 
While  the  fields  were  so  green,  and  the  sky  s4 
blue, 
Morbleu  !   Parbleu  ! 
Nothing  would  do 
For  the  whole  of  this  crew, 
But  they  must  be  marching  to  Moscow. 


The  Emperor  Nap  he  talk'd  so  big 
That  he  frighten'd  Mr.  Roscoe. 
John  Bull,  he  cries,  if  you'll  be  wise, 
Ask  the  Emperor  Nap  if  he  will  please 
To  grant  you  peace,  upon  your  knees, 
Because  he  is  going  to  Moscow  ! 
He'll  make  all  the  Poles  come  out  of  their  holes 
And  beat  the  Russians,  and  eat  the  Prussians; 
For  the  fields  are  green,  and  the  sky  is  blue, 
Morbleu  !  Parbleu  ! 
And  he'll  certainly  march  to  Moscow  ! 

5. 
And  Counsellor  Brougham  was  all  in  a  futna 
At  the  thought  of  the  march  to  Moscow : 
The  Russians,  he  said,  they  were  undone, 
And  the  great  Fee-Faw-Fum 
Would  presently  come, 
With  a  hop,  step,  and  jump,  unto  London 
For,  as  for  his  conquering  Russia, 


THE   MARCH    TO   MOSCOW.  271 

However  some  persons  might  scoflTit, 
Do  it  he  could,  and  do  it  he  would, 
And  from  domg  it  nothing  would  come  but  good, 
And  nothing  could  call  him  off  it. 
Mr.  Jeffrey  said  so,  who  must  certainly  know, 

For  he  was  the  Edinburgh  Prophet. 
They  all  oi  them  knew  Mr.  Jeffrey's  Review, 
Which  with  Holy  Writ  ought  to  be  reckon'd  ; 
L.  was,  through  thick  and  thin,  to  its  party  true  ; 
Its  back  was  buff,  and  its  sides  were  blue, 

Morbleu  !   Parbleu  ! 
It  served  them  for  Law  and  for  Gospel  too. 

6. 
But  the  Russians  stoutly  they  turned  to 
Upon  the  road  to  Moscow. 
Nap  had  to  fight  his  way  all  through ; 
They  could  fight,  though  they  could  not  parlez 

vous  ; 
Rut  the  fields  were  green,  and  the  sky  was  blue, 
iviorbleu  !   Parbleu ! 
And  so  he  got  to  Moscow. 

7. 
He  found  the  place  too  warm  for  him, 

For  they  set  fire  to  Moscow. 
To  get  there  had  cost  him  much  ado, 
And  then  no  better  course  he  knew, 
While  the  fields  were  green,  and  the  sky  was 
blue, 
Morbleu  !    Parbleu  ! 
But  to  march  back  again  from  Moscow. 


272  THE   M&.RCH    TO   MOSX)W. 

8. 

The  Russians  they  stuck  close  to  him 
All  on  the  road  from  Moscow. 
There  was  Tormazow  and  Jemalow 
And  all  the  others  that  end  in  ow ; 
Milarodovitch  and  Jaladovitch, 
And  Karatschkowifch, 
And  all  the  others  that  end  in  itch ; 
Schamscheff,  Souchosaneff, 
And  SchepalefF, 
And  all  the  others  that  end  in  efF; 
Wasillschikoff,  Kostomaroff, 
And  Tchoglokoff, 
And  all  the  others  that  end  in  off; 
Rajeffsky,  and  Novereffsky, 
And  Rieffsky, 
And  all  the  others  that  end  in  effsky,' 
Oscharoffsky  and  Rostoffsky, 
And  all  the  others  that  end  in  offsky  ; 
And  Platoff  he  play'd  them  off, 
And  Shouvaloff  he  shovell'd  them  off, 
And  Markoff  he  mark'd  them  off, 
And  Krosnoff  he  cross' d  them  off. 
And  Tuchkoff  he  touch'd  them  off, 
And  Boroskoff  he  bored  them  off, 
And  Kutousoff  he  cut  them  off, 
And  Parenzoff  he  pared  them  off. 
And  Worronzoff  he  worried  them  off, 
And  Doctoroff  he  doctor'd  them  off, 
And  Rodionoff  he  flos;g'd  them  off. 
And,  last  r^all,  an  Admiral  came, 


IHE   MARCH   TO   MOSCOW.  273 

A  terrible  man  with  a  terrible  n.ime, 
A  name  which  you  all  know  by  sight  very  well, 
But  which  no  one  can  speak,  and  no  one  can 
spell. 
They  stuck  close  to  Nap  with  all  their  might  j 

They  were  on  the  left  and  on  the  right, 
Behind  and  before,  and  by  day  and  by  night ; 

He  would  rather  parlez-vous  than  fight  • 
But  he  look'd  white,  and  he  look'd  blue. 

Morbleu !  Parbleu ! 

When  parlez-vous  no  more  would  do, 

For  they  remember'd  Moscow. 

9. 

And  then  came  on  the  frost  and  snow, 

All  on  the  road  from  Moscow, 

The  wind  and  the  weather  he  tound,  in  that  hour, 

Cared  nothing  for  him,  nor  lor  all  his  power ; 

For  him  who,  while  Europe  crouch' d  under  hia 

rod, 
Put  his  trust  in  his  Fortune,  and  not  in  his  God. 
Worse  and  worse  every  day  the  elements  grew, 
The  fields  were  so  white,  and  the  sky  so  blue, 
Sacrebleu !  Ventrebleu ! 
What  a  horrible  journey  from  Moscow  ! 

10. 

What  then  thought  the  Emperor  Nap 

Upon  the  road  from  Moscow  ? 

Why,  I  ween  he  thought  it  small  delight 

To  fight  all  day,  and  to  freeze  all  night ; 

And  he  was  besides  in  a  very  great  fright, 

18 


274  THE   MARCH   TO   MOSCOW. 

For  a  whole  skin  he  liked  to  be  in  ; 
And  so,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do, 
When  the  fields  were  so  white,  and  the  sky  so 
blue, 
iVIorbleu  !  Parbleu ! 
He  stole  away, — I  tell  you  true, — 
Upon  the  road  from  Moscow. 
'Tis  myself,  quoth  he,  I  must  mind  most ; 
So  the  Devil  may  take  the  hindmost. 


11. 

Too  cold  upon  the  road  was  he  ; 
Too  hot  had  he  been  at  Moscow ; 
But  colder  and  hotter  he  may  be, 
For  the  grave  is  colder  than  Moscovy ; 
And  a  place  there  is  to  be  kept  in  view, 
Where  the  fire  is  red,  and  the  brimstone  blae. 
Morbleu  !  Parbleu ! 
Which  he  must  go  to, 
If  the  Pope  say  true, 
If  he  does  not  in  time  look  about  him ; 
Where  his  namesake  almost 
He  may  have  for  his  Host ; 
He  has  reckon'd  too  long  without  him; 
If  that  Host  get  him  in  Purgatory, 
He  won't  leave  him  there  alone  \vith  his  gloi7 
But  there  he  must  stay  for  a  very  long  day, 
For  from  thence  there  is  no  stealing  away, 
As  there  was  on  the  road  from  Moscow. 

Keswick    ISn. 


TO  MARY. 


Mary  '.  ten  checker' d  years  have  pait 
Since  we  beheld  each  other  last ; 
Yet ,  Mary  ,  I  remember  thee, 
Nor  canst  thou  have  forgotten  me. 

The  bloom  was  then  upon  thy  face  ; 
Thy  form  had  every  youthful  grace  ; 
I  too  had  then  the  warmth  of  youth, 
And  in  our  hearts  was  all  its  truth. 

We  conversed,  were  there  others  by, 
With  common  mirth  and  random  eye ; 
But  when  escaped  the  sight  of  men. 
How  serious  was  our  converse  then ! 

Our  talk  was  then  of  years  to  come, 
Of  hopes  which  ask'd  a  humble  doom, 
Themes  which  to  loving  thoughts  might  movej 
Although  we  never  spake  of  love. 

At  our  last  meeting  sure  thy  heart 
Was  even  as  loath  as  mine  to  part ; 

2"% 


«76 


And  yet  we  little  thought  that  then 
We  parted — not  to  meet  again. 

Long,  Mary  !  after  that  adieu, 
My  dearest  day-dreams  were  of  you; 
In  sleep  1  saw  you  still,  and  long 
Made  you  the  theme  of  secret  song. 

When  manhood  and  its  cares  came  on, 
The  humble  hopes  of  youth  were  gone; 
And  other  hopes  and  other  fears 
Effaced  the  thoughts  of  happier  year& 

Meantime  through  many  a  varied  yeaf 
Of  thee  no  tidings  did  1  hear, 
And  thou  hast  never  heard  my  name 
Save  from  the  vague  reports  of  fame. 

But  then,  I  trust,  detraction's  lie 
Hath  kindled  anger  in  thine  eye  ; 
And  thou  my  praise  wert  proud  to  see, — 
My  name  should  still  be  dear  to  thee. 

Ten  years  have  held  their  course ;  thus  latil 
I  learn  the  tidings  of  thy  fate  ; 
A  Husband  and  a  Father  now, 
Of  thee,  a  Wife  and  Mother  thou. 

And,  Mary,  as  lor  thee  I  frame 

A  prayer  which  hath  no  selfish  aim, 

No  happier  lot  can  I  wish  thee 

Than  such  as  Heaven  hath  granted  me. 

London.  1802, 


TO  MARGARET  HILL 


■WRITTEN   FROM   LONDON.      1798. 

Margaret  !   my  Cousin, — nay,  you   must  not 

smile, 
I  love  the  homely  and  familiar  phrase : 
And  I  will  call  thee  Cousin  Margaret, 
However  quaint  amid  the  measured  line 
The  good  old  term  appears.     Oh  !  it  looks  ill 
When  delicate  tongues  disclaim  old  terms  of  kin, 
Sir-ing  and  Madam-ing  as  civilly 
As  if  the  road  between  the  heart  and  lips 
Were  such  a  weary  and  Laplandish  way, 
That  the  poor  travellers  came  to  the  red  gates 
Half  frozen.     Trust  me,  Cousin  Margaret, 
For  many  a  day  my  memory  hath  play'd 
The  creditor  with  me  on  your  account, 
And  made  me  shame  to  think  that  1  should  ow« 
So  long  the  debt  of  kindness.     But  in  truth, 
Like  Christian  on  his  pilgrimage,  I  bear 
So  heavy  a  pack  of  business,  that  albeit 
I  toil  on  mainly,  in  our  twelve  hoars'  race 
Time  leaves  n.e  distanced.  Loath  indeed  were  I 

277 


278  T(-    MARGARET   HILl , 

That  for  a  moment  you  should  lay  to  me 
Unkind  neglect ;  mine,  Margaret,  is  a  heart 
That  smokes  not :  yet  methinks  there  should  be 

some 
Who  know  its  genuine  warmth.    I  am  not  one 
Who  can  play  off  my  smiles  and  courtesies 
To  every  Lady  of  her  lap-dog  tired 
Who  wants  a  plaything  ;  I  am  no  sworn  friend 
Of  half-an-hour,  as  apt  to  leave  as  love  ; 
Mine  are  no  mushroom  feelings,  which  spring  up 
At  once  without  a  seed,  and  take  no  root, 
Wiseliest  distrusted.     In  a  narrow  sphere, 
The  httle  circle  of  domestic  life, 
I  would  be  known  and  loved  :  the  world  beyond 
Is  not  for  me.     But,  Margaret,  sure  I  think 
That  you  should  know  me  well ;  for  you  and  I 
Grew  up  together,  and  when  we  look  back 
Upon  old  times,  our  recollections  paint 
The  same  familiar  faces      Did  I  wield 
The  wand  of  Merlin's  magic,  I  would  make 
Brave  witchcraft.     We  would  have  a  faery  ship. 
Ay,  a  new  Ark,  as  in  that  other  flood 
Which  swept  the  sons  of  Anak  from  the  earth  ; 
The  Sylphs  should  waft  us  to  some  goodly  isle 
Like  that  where  whilom  old  ApoUidon, 
Retiring  wisely  from  the  troublous  world, 
Built  up  his  blameless  spell ;  and  I  would  bid 
The  Sea-Nymphs  pile  around  their  coral  bowers, 
That  we  might  stand  upon  the  beach,  and  mark 
The  far-off  breakers  shower  their  silver  spray, 
And  hear  the  eternal  roar   whose  pleasant  sound 


ro   MARGARET   HIL).  279 

Told  us  that  never  manner  should  reach 
Our  quiet  coast.     In  such  a  blessed  isle 
We  might  renew  the  days  of  infancy, 
And  life,  like  a  long  childhood,  pass  away, 
Without  one  care.     It  may  be,  Margaret, 
That  I  shall  yet  be  gather'd  to  my  friends; 
For  I  am  not  of  those  who  live  estranged 
Of  choice,  till  at  the  last  they  join  their  race 
In  the  family  vault.     If  so,  if  I  should  lose, 
Like  my  old  friend  the  Pilgrim  this  huge  pack 
So  heavy  on  my  shoulders,  I  and  mine 
Right  pleasantly  will  end  our  pilgrimage. 
If  not,  if  I  should  never  get  beyond 
This  Vanity-town,  there  is  another  world 
Where  friends  will  meet.     And  often,  Margaret, 
I  gaze  at  night  into  the  boundless  sky, 
And  think  that  I  shall  there  be  born  again, 
The  exalted  native  of  some  better  star  ; 
And,  Uke  the  uiita.ight  American,  I  look 
Tc  fine  ir  Heaven  the  things  I  loved  on  eaith. 


EPITAPH 


This  to  a  mother  3  sacred  meniorf 

Her  son  hath  hallow'd.     Absent  many  a  year 

Far  over  sea,  his  sweetest  dreams  v\  ere  still 

Of  that  dear  voice  which  soothed  his  infancy; 

And  after  many  a  fight  against  the  Moor 

And  Malabar,  or  that  fierce  caivalry 

Which  he  had  seen  coverincr  the  boundless  plain; 

Even  to  the  utmost  Umits  where  the  eye 

Could  pierce  the  far  horizon,— liis  first  thought 

In  safetv  was  of  her,  who,  when  she  heard 

The  tale  of  that  day's  danger,  would  retire 

And  pour  her  pious  gratitude  to  Heaven 

In  prayers  and  tears  of  joy.     The  lingering  houf 

Of  his  return,  long-look'd-for,  came  at  length, 

And  full  of  hope  he  reach'd  his  native  shore. 

Vain  hope  that  puts  its  trust  in  human  life  I 

For  ere  he  came,  the  number  of  her  days 

Was  full.     O  Reader,  what  2  world  were  this, 

How  unendurable  its  weight,  if  they 

Whom  Death  hatV  sunder' d  did  not  meet  again  • 

Kiswick,  ISIO. 

280 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

IHQIIBINO  IP  I  WOULD  LIVE  OVERMT  YOUTH 
AGAIN. 


1. 

Do  I  regret  the  past  ? 
Would  T  again  live  o'er 
The  morning  hours  of  life  ? 
Nay,  William  !  nay,  not  so  ! 
In  the  warm  joyance  of  the  summer  son, 
I  do  not  wish  again 
The  changeful  April  day. 
Nay,  William  !  nay.  not  so ! 
Safe  haven' d  from  the  sea, 
I  would  not  tempt  again 
The  uncertain  ocean's  wrath. 
Praise  be  to  Him  who  made  me  what  I  am, 
Other  I  would  not  be. 

2. 
Why  is  it  pleasant  then,  to  sit  and  talk 
Of  days  that  are  no  more  ? 
When  in  his  own  dear  home 
The  Uraveller  rests  at  last, 

281 


282  TO   A    FRIEND. 

And  tells  how  often  in  his  wanderings. 
The  thought  of  those  far  oft 
Hath  made  his  eyes  o'erflow 
With  no  unmanly  tears  ; 
Dehghted  he  recalls 
rhrough  what  fail-  scenes  his  lingering  feet  haira 
trod; 
But  ever  when  he  tells  of  perils  past 
And  troubles  now  no  more. 
His  eyes  are  brightest,  and  a  readier  joy 
Flows  thankful  from  his  heart. 

3. 
No,  William  !  no,  I  would  not  live  again 
The  mornmg  hours  of  life  ; 

I  would  not  be  again 
The  slave  of  hope  and  fear  ; 
I  would  not  learn  again 
The  wisdom  by  Experience  hardly  taught, 

4. 

To  me  the  past  prcsenrs 

No  object  for  regret  ; 
To  me  I  he  present  ?ives 
All  cause  for  full  content. 
The  future? — it  is  now  the  cheerful  noon 
And  on  the  sunny-smiling  fields  I  gaze 
With  eyes  alive  to  joy  : 
When  the  dark  night  descends, 
I  willingly  shall  close  my  weary  lids, 
In  sure  and  certain  hope  to  wake  again. 

Westhury,  1798. 


THE  VICTORY. 


Hark — how  the  church-bells,  with  redoubling 

peals, 
Stun  the  glad  ear !      Tidings  of  joy  have  come, 
Good  tidings  of  great  joy  !  two  gallant  ships 
Mei  on  the  element,— they  met,  they  fought 
A  desperate  fight ! — good  tidings  of  great  joy  ! 
Old  England  triumph'd  !  yet  another  day  * 
Of  glory  for  the  ruler  of  the  waves ! 
For   those  who  fell, — 'twas  in  their  country's 

cause, — 
They  have  their  passing  paragraphs  of  praise, 
And  are  forgotten. 

There  was  one  who  died 
In  that  day's  glory,  whose  obscurer  name 
No  proud  historian's  page  will  chronicle. 
Peace  to  his  honest  soul !     I  read  his  name, — 
'Twas  in  the  list  of  slaughter, — and  thank'd  God 
The  sound  was  not  familiar  to  mine  ear. 
But  it  was  told  me  after,  that  this  man 
Was  one  whom  lawful  violence  had  forced 
From  his  ovin  home,  and  wife,  and  httle  ones, 

263 


r^ 


284  THE   VICTORV. 

Who  by  his  labor  Uved ;  that  he  was  one 
Whose  uncorrupted  heart  could  keenly  feel 
A  husband's  love  ;  a  father's  anxiousness  ; 
That  from  ihe  wages  of  his  toil  he  fed 
The  distant  dear  ones,  and  would  talk,  of  them 
At  midaight  when  he  trod  the  silent  deck 
With  him  he  valued, — talk  of  them,  of  joys 
Which  he  had  known, — oh  God  !  and  of  the  houf 
When  they  should  meet  again,  till  his  full  heart, 
His  manly  heart,  at  times  would  overflow, 
Even  Uke  a  child's,  with  very  tenderness. 
Peace  to  his  honest  spirit !  suddenly 
It  came,  and  merciful  the  ball  of  death, 
That  it  came  suddenly  and  shatter'd  him, 
Nor  left  a  moment's  agonizing  thought 
On  those  he  loved  so  well. 

*  He  ocean-deep 

Now  lies  at  rest.     Be  Thou  her  comforter, 
Who  art  the  widow's  friend  !  Man  does  not  know 
What  a  cold  sickness  made  her  blood  run  back 
When  first  she  heard  the  tidings  of  the  fight ! 
Man  does  not  know  with  what  a  dreadful  hope 
She  listened  to  the  names  of  those  who  died  ; 
Man  does  not  know,  or  knowing  wuU  not  heed, 
With  what  an  agony  of  tenderness 
She  gazed  upon  her  children,  and  beheld 
His  image  who  was  gone.     O  God !  be  Thou, 
Who  art  the  widow's  friend,  her  comforter! 

Wetthnry,  1798. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  I  UNERAL. 


It  is  the  funeral  march.     I  did  not  think 

That  there  had  been  such  magic  in  sweet  sounds  I 

Hark  !   from  the  blacken' d  cymbal  that  dead 

tone  ! — 
It  awes  the  very  rabble  multitude ; 
They  follow  silently,  their  earnest  brows 
Lifted  in  solemn  thought.     'Tis  not  the  pomp 
And  pageantry  of  death  that  withtsuch  force 
Arrests   the  sense ; — the    mute   and  mourning 

train, 
The  white  plume  nodding  o'er  the  sable  hearse, 
Had  past  unheeded,  or  perchance  awoke 
A  serious  smile  upon  the  poor  man's  cheek 
At  pride's  last  triumph.     Now  these  measured 

sounds, 
This  universal  language,  to  the  heart 
Speak  instant,  and  on  all  these  various  minds 
Compel  one  feehng. 

But  such  better  thoughts 
Will  pass  away,  how  soon  !  and  these  who  here 

285 


286  THE  soldier's  funeral. 

Are  folk-' wing  their  dead  comrade  to  the  grave. 
Ere  the  night  fall  will  in  their  revelry 
Quench  all  remembrance.     From  the  ties  of  life 
Unnaturally  rent,  a  man  who  knew 
No  resting-place,  no  dear  delights  of  home, 
Belike  who  never  saw  his  children's  face, 
Whose  children  knew  no  father, — he  is  gone,— 
Dropp'd  from  existence,  like  a  blasted  leaf 
That  from  the  summer  tree  is  swept  away. 
Its  loss  unseen.     She  hears  not  of  his  death 
Who  bore  him,  and  already  for  her  son 
Her  tears  of  bitterness  are  shed  ;  when  first 
He  had  put  on  the  livery  of  blood, 
She  wept  him  dead  to  her 

We  are  indeed 
Clay  in  the  potter's  hand  !     One  favor'd  mind, 
Scarce  lower  than  the  Angels,  shall  explore 
The  ways  of  Nature,  whilst  his  fellow-man, 
Framed  with  like  miracle,  the  work  of  God, 
Must  as  the  unreasonable  beast  drag  on 
A  life  of  labor  ;  like  this  soldier  here, 
His  wondrous  faculties  bestow' d  in  vain, 
Be  moulded  by  his  fate  till  he  becomes 
A  mere  machine  of  murder. 

And  there  are 
Who  say  that  this  is  well !  as  God  has  made 
All  things  for  man's  good  pleasure,  so  of  men 
The  many  for  the  few  !     Court-moralists, 
Reverend  lip-comforters,  that  once  a  week 
Proclaim  how  blessed  are  the  poor,  for  they 
Shal    have  their  wealth  hereafter,  and  though 


THE   SOLDIER  S   FUNERAL.  287 

Toiling  and  troubled,  they  may  pick  the  crambs 
That  from  the  rich  man's  table  fall,  at  length 
In  Abraham's  bosom  rest  with  Lazarus. 
Themselves  meantime  secure  their  good  things 

here. 
And  feast  with  Dives.    These  are  they,  O  Lord . 
Who  in  thy  plain  and  simple  Gospel  see 
All  mysteries,  but  who  find  no  peace  enjoin'd, 
No  brotherhood,  no  wrath  denounced  on  them 
Who   shed   their    brethren's    blood, — blind   at 

noon-day 
As  owls,  lynx-eyed  in  darkness  ! 

O  my  God' 
I  thank  thee,  with  no  Pharisaic  pride 
1  ihank  thee,  that  I  am  not  such  as  these ; 
I  thank  thee  for  the  eye  that  sees,  the  heart 
That  feels,  the  voice  that  in  these  evil  dayv. 
Amid  these  evil  tongues,  exalts  itself, 
Aid  cries  aloud  against  iniquity. 

Bristol,  1795. 


THE  TRAVELLER'S  RETURN 


Sweet  to  the  morning  traveller 

The  song  amid  the  sky, 
Where,  twinkling  in  the  dewy  light, 

The  skylark  soars  on  high. 

And  cheering  to  the  traveller 
The  gales  that  round  him  play, 

When  faint  and  heavily  he  drags 
Along  his  noon-tide  way. 

And  when  beneath  the  unclouded  sol 

Full  wearily  toils  he, 
The  flowing  water  makes  to  him 

A  soothing  melody. 

And  when  the  evening  light  decays, 

And  all  is  calm  around. 
There  is  sweet  music  to  his  ear 

In  the  distant  sheep-bell's  sound. 

But  oh !  of  all  delightful  sounds 

Of  evening  or  of  morn, 
The  sweetest  is  the  voice  of  Love, 

That  welcomes  his  return. 

Westbury,  1798.  ^g„ 


ttrsB  LionARt 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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